


Awakening

by GrrraceUnderfire



Series: Coming of Age: Peter Newkirk's Journey [7]
Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Canon Related, Coming of Age, Father-Son Relationship, Flashbacks, London, M/M, Male Slash, Original Character(s), Paris (City), Post-Canon, Post-War, References to Canon, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 75,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26684638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrrraceUnderfire/pseuds/GrrraceUnderfire
Summary: In the aftermath of World War II, Peter Newkirk's life has been torn to shreds. His home was obliterated by the vengeance weapons unleashed on London after D-Day. His birth family has scattered, and the only real family he's known for the past four years--the men of LuftStalag 13--are moving on with their lives. Can they help him pick up the pieces, even if his life looks nothing like anyone expected for him?I want to be clear about my intentions for this story. Scenes of a sexual nature WILL occur to advance the plot. But my goal is to write an accurate, inquisitive story about what it would mean if one of our beloved heroes turned out to be gay, and how that would affect his options in life and his relationships. The focus is on character, not titillation.I will be using language that's authentic to the period, some of it ugly. The word "gay" won't appear. In fact, correct words were mostly unspoken. As of chapter 9, only LeBeau, God bless him, has been bold enough to say "homosexual" out loud. Peter is still dying inside at the thought that this word describes him. This story is about the struggle of a character to live an authentic life.
Relationships: Louis LeBeau & Peter Newkirk, Peter Newkirk/Original Character(s), Robert Hogan & Peter Newkirk
Series: Coming of Age: Peter Newkirk's Journey [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1786459
Comments: 191
Kudos: 30





	1. Chez LeBeau

**Author's Note:**

> This story picks up two years after the events of Peter and Anja. It will include flashbacks to the last months of the war and its immediate aftermath. Updates will come at a pace of around two per week. LeBeau and Hogan will figure prominently in this story, and Carter and Kinch will show up too.
> 
> A special thank you to my collaborator Valashu for reading and commenting on endless drafts and outlines of this story. I also want to thank my beta, Abracadebra, for editing help and for encouraging me to enrich the story with background and historical details.

**PARIS, MAY 1946**

Louis LeBeau fished out his keys as he strolled through the courtyard with an armload of groceries. The lunch shift at his restaurant was winding down, and dinner service wouldn’t commence for three hours, so he decided to stroll home to the large flat in the Marais that he had inherited from his _grandm_ _ère_. He wanted to check on his guest—and personally escort him to his dinner shift as a trainee _legumier_. It might not be what his friend wanted to do with the rest of his life, but he was skilled with a knife, and he was under orders from his guardian to find a summer job if he was going to spend three months in Paris.

LeBeau climbed one flight to his floor, stepped over the threshold and smelled the crisp odor of English cigarettes. Yes, Pierre was home. He peered into the living room and saw a trail of coffee cups, socks and English books and newspapers. Definitely home, he thought, smiling and shaking his head. He turned right to deposit fresh bread, meat and vegetables in the kitchen, then headed back down the long corridor toward the bedrooms.

As he turned left again, he could hear the dripping from the shower in the large bathroom. “Pierre, I’m home,” he called out. “Remember I told you that you have to give the hot water faucet an extra-tight turn? This is very old plumbing—you should be used to that!” He walked past his bedroom, and past Peter’s next to it, and turned left into the large bathroom.

There stood Peter Newkirk, drying off, with the window over the bathtub flung open behind him, with the leaves and branches of the grand old Linden tree in the courtyard practically poking their way inside.

“Oh, you’re still in here. I’m sorry, you should have closed the door and I wouldn’t have barged in,” LeBeau remarked. He looked up at Peter, who was avoiding his gaze as he wrapped a towel around his waist, and smiled at his young friend. “Did you sleep all day?” LeBeau asked him.

“No, of course not,” Peter replied with a grin. “I went out for a long walk, got myself lost on these winding streets, and by the t-time I got back, I was a sweaty mess. I needed another shower. Paris seems a lot warmer in the summer than London.”

“It is a bit warmer,” LeBeau said absently, but his thoughts were elsewhere. “How do you get so much water on the floor?” he asked, looking around in amazement. “And do you always shower with the window wide open?” He stepped into the tub to pull it shut most of the way.

“No, I opened it after… sssorry about the mess,” Peter said. “I’ll clean it up.”

LeBeau ignored him and began mopping as Peter stood by awkwardly, running a smaller towel through his hair. “How many towels do you need?” LeBeau asked with a laugh. “Honestly, Pierre, four? You’re turning into an American.”

“Colonel Hogan has lots of t-t-towels,” Peter mumbled.

“ _General_ Hogan has lots of everything. Yes, I’m sure he has plenty of towels in the embassy compound, and he has a housemaid to pick up after you, too,” LeBeau scolded, though there was a playful edge to his voice, as if he actually missed sparring every day about everything and anything.

“So do you,” Peter replied with a bit of a pout.

“Twice a week, not all day, every day,” LeBeau replied. He draped the wet towels over the side of the bathtub and turned to face Peter, a hand on his hip. Louis simultaneously sighed and smiled as he looked at him, bare chested and healthy looking. He was a handful; he always had been. But it was good to have him here and to see him looking so much better than he had upon their repatriation a year earlier.

“Pierre, you do know he sent you here to learn to stand on your own two feet a bit more, don’t you?” Louis asked kindly. “You didn’t grow up with people cleaning up after you.”

“I did so. I have ssseven older sisters. I couldn’t put a teacup down without having someone snatch it up to w-wash it,” Peter grumbled. “But I’m sorry, Louis, I’ll try harder. I know it’s your ffflat and I’m a guest here.”

“You’re my _fr_ _érot_ , not my guest,” LeBeau said kindly, following his half-naked friend out into the hallway. He peered into Peter’s bedroom and forced himself not to shake his head at the mess. “But you can start by making your bed, please. Then clean up those coffee cups in the living room and come help me make lunch for us.”

Peter leaned against the door frame and watched as LeBeau disappeared down the hallway, and then went into his bedroom and sat down heavily on his rumpled bed. He was happy to be Louis’s guest. He had missed him terribly for months.

But that was awfully close. He didn’t think Louis would approve of his having guests at midday. And he was fairly sure that Louis would not be happy to learn that his guest was another restaurant employee.


	2. Settling In

LeBeau was juggling tasks as Peter wandered into the kitchen at his leisure, barefoot, hair wet, and dressed in a white t-shirt and a pair of khakis that were too loose for his thin frame. The late May weather was unseasonably warm. LeBeau enjoyed being home for lunch, but today he seemed to have more energy than time. He was all business as he chopped tomatoes and cucumbers and tossed them into a salad, then yanked a tray of chicken breasts out of the oven.

“How did you cook that so fast?” Peter marveled as he sniffed the air. The food smelled delicious and looked simple and hearty, the way he liked it.

LeBeau turned to look at Peter and smiled. Yes, he really was so much healthier than he had been only a year previously. Though he was still slim, he had added a significant amount of weight to what had become a skeletal frame in the final months of the war. Good food and outdoor exercise agreed with him. His skin was rosy, and days spent in the sunshine had streaked his brown hair with golden hints of childhood blondness. Most of all, he no longer looked like a coiled spring. He had relaxed.

“I had _un commis_ season the chicken at the restaurant,” LeBeau shrugged. “It just needed 20 minutes to broil, and it took you long enough to get here. Will you pour the wine?” He was looking forward to an hour’s relaxation with Pierre.

“I was cleaning up in the parlor. Sssorry for the mess,” Peter said as he complied. A year ago, at nineteen and fresh out of a POW camp, he wouldn’t have even considered drinking a glass of wine; all he wanted was a nice pint of ale. But a year of civilian life in the frequent company of both Colonel—no, General—Hogan and his best mate LeBeau had exposed Peter to new pleasures. He poured out a _Pouilly-Fuisse,_ set the table for lunch, and unapologetically broke off a hunk of bread to nibble on while LeBeau plated the food.

“I can’t get enough of _baguette_ ,” Peter said with a full mouth and a mischievous sparkle in his eye.

“Normally we eat at the table, Pierre,” LeBeau replied, but he was smiling. He was glad to see Peter enjoying food; he had often struggled to eat.

Finally, their plates were assembled and the presentation was up to LeBeau’s exacting standards. They sat together companionably at the dining table, as they had for the past four weeks since Peter had arrived from London.

Peter was curious about the newspaper headlines he’d been seeing. He started asking questions, and LeBeau patiently explained what was happening in politics. The Vichy government had, of course, fallen in 1944; General de Gaulle had led the provisional government until January, when he was succeeded by Félix Gouin, a socialist who happened to be a frequent diner at LeBeau’s restaurant. The assembly’s latest attempt at adopting a new constitution had failed in early May, and a national election was a week away to choose the new assembly that would attempt to prepare a new constitution.

It was fascinating, and Peter knew he was in France at a momentous time. But his eyes began to glaze over when LeBeau tried to distinguish between the four different factions that were vying for control. LeBeau took mercy and changed the subject.

“When will you hear from your _papa_ , Pierre?” LeBeau asked.

Peter tried to look indignant at the word, but he couldn’t pull it off, because he couldn’t think about the Colonel—no, the General—without feeling warm inside. Hogan and LeBeau both cared about him like no man ever had. LeBeau had become his reliable and wise older brother. Hogan was now, for all practical purposes, his father— _all_ his, at least until he made a bleeding decision about whether to propose to Tiger, Peter thought with a satisfied grin. He liked having the Gov to himself, although he had strong views on Hogan’s need for steadier companionship.

Hogan had been Peter’s commanding officer for four years, his guardian for three, and his hearth and home since the Stalag 13 team returned to London in April 1945. Peter had arrived home desperately sick, to devastation and family tragedy, and at only 19, he had nowhere to turn. The family flat in the East End was obliterated, the family was scattered to the countryside, and until he was 21 or married he couldn’t sign a lease for a bedsit on his own, even if he did have the money, which he didn’t. Only Mavis remained in London. Well, Mavis and his father, not that he counted for anything but trouble.

Peter had been under Hogan’s care and control since they landed in England that spring, and had lived under his roof since he was discharged from hospital that August. Peter halfway suspected that Hogan’s decision to accept a three-year assignment in London rather than return to the States was made for his benefit. And he was grateful.

“Pierre? When will you hear from him?” LeBeau repeated.

Peter came out of a daydream. “M-maybe never,” Peter joked. “He’s probably lost somewhere in the Pentagon. He says it’s enormous. Can’t you just see him, the great Papa Bear, wandering the corridors in search of his desk?”

“I suspect he has more than a desk, if his London office is anything to go by,” LeBeau said with a smile. “Maybe we should send a search party.”

“Radio Carter and Kinch! Mobilize the Underground! We’ve got to fffind the Gov and free him!” Peter said with dramatic alarm. But he had ridden the joke as far as he could, so he answered Louis’ original question. “Well, anyway, he’s phoning at the weekends. We should hear from him tomorrow, Sunday morning.”

“You’ll have to get up early,” LeBeau teased. “Maybe even in time for lunch.”

“Earlier,” Peter groaned. “He usually calls at 6 A.M. his time when he’s finished doing his bleeding p-p-push-ups and sit-ups. That’s noon here. I don’t think he understands that we don’t even finish in the kitchen until long after midnight on Saturdays. And we’ve still got to walk home and feed the cat after that.”

“When did you _ever_ feed the cat? Madame Faucher does that,” Louis ribbed him. The concierge let herself in every evening except Sunday and Monday, when they were off work.

“Well, p-p-pet the cat then,” Peter replied. “And play with the cat. And spoil the cat.” He was fond of the cat.

“Where is Cosette, anyway?” Louis asked, looking around. Usually the little tabby was rubbing at his ankles at mealtimes. Pierre had probably filled her up with treats all day.

“Last time I saw her, she was in my room, preening and sunning herself,” Peter said. “Well, anyway, the Gov said he’d call every Sunday like clockwork, and he writes a lllletter every Wednesday.”

“And you write back?”

“Yes, Louis,” Peter replied, rolling his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“Have you told him about your job?”

“Yes, in great detail,” Peter answered. “He’s amazed that you’re letting me near your _haute cuisine_.”

“He hasn’t seen you make an intricate flower out of a bell pepper or a cabbage. And your fine-cutting technique is excellent.”

Peter smiled at the compliments. He had to give Louis a hard time—that went without saying—but he was actually enjoying the precise work of a _legumier_ , and training under the elderly and formidable _entremetier_ , Pascal Courtet, had turned out to be a pleasure.

“Pascal says as soon as my j-j-j-julienning is _parfait_ , he’ll teach me _chiffonade_ and turn me loose on the greens,” Peter said proudly.

“If you’re not careful, I’ll have to promote you to _entremetier_ and put Pascal out to pasture,” Louis said.

“Not a chance, mate,” Peter said flatly. “I’m not planning to be in the kitchen all night for the rest of my life. How old is he anyway, 80? 90?”

LeBeau scoffed. “He’s only 72, Pierre. He taught me to _julienne_ when I was 10.”

“Hmm. When I was 10, I was busy stealing wallets off Yank captains,” Peter said.

That was a conversation stopper. Peter looked down at his plate and pushed a bit of tomato around. He reached under his collar and fingered the captains bars he kept on a dog-tag chain Colonel Hogan had given him. 

When LeBeau spoke again, his voice was very soft and kind. “He wants you to have a better future, Pierre. The kitchen is hard work, but it’s honest work,” he said.

“I know. I want him to be proud of me,” Peter replied, still staring at his plate.

“He is proud of you. We all are,” LeBeau said. He paused, then continued. “The late hours that we work take some getting used to.”

“True. But my usual line of wwwwwwork has notoriously late hours, plus more occupational hazards than a kitchen does,” Peter said. A little bit of mischief was creeping back into his voice.

“Which line of work are we talking about this time?” LeBeau asked. “Tailoring? Magic?”

“Breaking and entering,” Peter said with a grin. “I wouldn’t mind giving it a try here. The buildings have such big wwwwindows and lots of masonry to make the climb easier.”

“You’re not to go through any windows or into anywhere you don’t belong. Promise me, Pierre.” LeBeau looked dead serious.

“Of course I promise. _Je blague_. I’m only j-j-j-joking. That’s all behind me now, Louis.” Peter looked at him and offered his most disarming smile. “I’m a good boy now. C-c-completely reformed.”

“ _Bon_. Are you doing alright without him? It’s been four weeks since you left London.”

“Without…?”

“Who are we talking about, Pierre? Your _papa_!”

“Colonel Hogan? Well, of course I miss him. He’s my ffffamily now, isn’t he? And you are too, of course.” He toyed with the food on his plate and huffed out a breath. “He’ll be back, though, right? He’s definitely coming back?” His voice had dropped low.

“Of course he will. It’s only a three-month tour of duty. You could have gone, you know,” LeBeau said softly.

“I know that. But then I wouldn’t be seeing you, and I’ve missed you, too.” Peter smiled. “Mummy,” he added with a wink.

LeBeau threw a cloth napkin at him. “Stop that. How is your mum, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Peter sulked. “Australia’s far away, and they don’t have a telephone at Helen’s house. Neddie sends me postcards. He misses Georgie. He says he would love playing in the sunshine. I imagine Mum’s busy a lot, helping to care for Nell’s two little lads. It's probably good for her.”

Suddenly Peter had a faraway look in his eye, and LeBeau knew what he was thinking.

He was taking inventory.

Violet and Georgie, dead. Flattened by a V-2 bomb in October 1944, along with the entire house. And no one told him until he got home six months later.

The old man, against all odds, still alive and turning up like a bad penny every few months, even after the Gov had told him off. With any luck, he wouldn’t find his way to Paris, though Peter wouldn’t put it past him.

Mum and Neddie, gone to Australia right after Christmas with Helen and her husband and two little boys.

Rose, off with her GI husband in Boston, USA, since the week Peter got out of hospital in August 1945. Missing her twin sister Vi like a phantom limb, and writing home letters about nothing but the new cocktails she and Bob were trying that night.

Nora in Bournemouth with Aunt Betty since the house was smashed, trying to hold onto her health and get enough insulin.

Annie and Eliza, next-door neighbors in Norwich for three years now, surrounded by seven giggling kids between them, and practically strangers to him. Oh, they were happy enough to see him when he made the journey, and grateful when he kicked a football around with their combined brood. But there was no time for him. There hadn’t ever been, really.

And Mavis. Still in London, and engaged at long last to a Canadian Royal Navy petty officer first class. A marvelous chap, Alan Puckett. And any day now, he’d be sweeping her off to Ottawa, leaving Peter all alone in London.

Life hadn’t exactly been easy before, but at least Peter know where home was and that he could find his family there. Now the neighborhood was pummeled beyond recognition, the house was gone, and his family was scattered and broken.

And somehow Peter had cheated it all. When he wasn’t in the spacious Mayfair townhouse provided for General Hogan by the American Embassy, he was in Chef LeBeau’s elegant Parisian flat. In each place, he had a bedroom entirely to himself for the first time in his life. In the Gov, he had a dad who paid attention to him and who took him on trips to America. He had more clothes than he’d ever owned, and several pairs of shoes and boots, none of which had holes. And he had a whole tribe of big brothers on two continents, including the beloved confidant who, at this very minute, was looking at him with such concern that it seemed like he might cry.

Peter Newkirk hadn’t had to pick a pocket or steal anything in well over a year. He’d landed like a pig in muck, really. Now all he had to do was pick up the pieces of a vanished past and figure out who Peter Newkirk was when you stripped away everything he knew.

He was lost in thought when the cat wandered into the kitchen and rubbed against his leg. “Cosette wants chicken,” he said with a soft smile. He picked up the cat to pet her.

“Not at the table, Pierre,” LeBeau reprimanded him. “Put her down.”

Peter complied, but smiled back. He was feeling sad, but it was time to buck up. Stiff upper lip. “I’ve started getting to know people, Louis.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve seen you flirting with the shop girls from the tobacconist’s next door,” LeBeau joked.

“Yes, Thérèse and Solange. What pretty names they have, and they slip me English cigarettes,” Peter laughed.

“Pretty figures, too, although naturally you noticed the cigarettes. That’s the fastest way to your heart,” LeBeau answered, shaking his head in mock disapproval.

Peter laughed and dipped his head, acknowledging the truth. His good looks ensured that he’d always had girls flocking around him, and he loved the easy attention. But he was making other friends, too.

“Louis, one of the kitchen crew told me about a football match he plays in at the weekends. They need more lads. The matches are on Saturday mornings.” He said it expectantly, not wanting to ask his permission, but knowing Louis would want to know his whereabouts.

“Ah, you should definitely go,” LeBeau said. General Hogan would be pleased to hear that, he thought. The cigarette girls were very pretty, but right now Pierre needed friends, healthy exercise, and fresh air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Peter's comment about "stealing wallets off Yank captains" refers to a key incident in my story "A Minor Problem." It is mentioned for the first time in Chapter 20. The captain in question was a younger Robert Hogan, who was attached to the US Embassy in London.
> 
> In a French kitchen's brigade de cuisine, a _legumier_ is a vegetable cook who reports to the _entremetier_ , a more senior chef who prepares soups and other dishes that don't contain meat or fish, such as vegetable dishes and egg dishes. With Newkirk's superb knife skills, _legumier_ seemed like a natural job for him. The _legumier_ would learn to do lots of cool things, such as making flower garnishes out of radishes, which I could totally see Newkirk enjoying. I appreciate my beta's help in pushing me to research and add these details early on in the development of this story.


	3. Emergency Transport

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, but we have a bit of background to get through so I wanted to keep this moving along.

**APRIL 1945: Repatriation**

A long, winding, and painful path had led Peter to Paris in the spring of 1946. There were times when his friends and family doubted he’d see another spring.

On the ground in Stalag 13 in April 1945, his prospects had looked very poor indeed. No one was exactly well; months of broken supply lines and diminishing resources meant that rations were halved, and then halved again. The Germans were not much better off than their prisoners.

Peter, who had never really eaten well, starting shedding weight like everyone else. But an intractable respiratory infection that had hung on since February had tipped him over the edge. By the time the Sherman tanks rolled through the gates in April, he was barely one-hundred pounds. Successive bouts of bronchitis and pneumonia had sapped his strength, giving way to broken ribs and pleurisy.

Every breath hurt like a dagger. Every cough and sneeze brought an even sharper pain in Peter’s chest, making his eyes water. So on the fifth day after Stalag 13 was liberated, Colonel Hogan had personally loaded him onto a lorry destined for a field hospital at the British transit camp near LeHavre.

“I want to stay with you. I can help,” Peter had told him, trying to sound purposeful right up to the moment when he dissolved into agonizing, choking coughs. Hogan climbed into the lorry next to Peter as a medic forced him to lie down on one of the stretchers. LeBeau slipped under Hogan’s arm, and took Peter’s hand.

“I can go with him,” LeBeau insisted.

“You can’t, LeBeau,” Hogan said. “British POW, British camp—those are the rules,” he said. He laid a hand on Peter’s chest. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, Son. We’ll be done here soon, and I should only be two or three days behind you. Stay strong, and listen to the doctors.”

“Yes, Sir,” Peter said, sounding brave, though his wide eyes hinted at terror. He gripped LeBeau’s hand tighter. “But Louis?”

“Oui, _mon frérot_?” LeBeau leaned in.

“Promise me something,” Peter said softly. “J-j-just in case, well, you know…”

“Anything _mon pote_.”

“Burn the recipe for _bouilliabaise_. Don’t ever do that to a living human being again.”

LeBeau laughed, then covered his mouth with his hand to choke back a sob. Leave it to Peter to crack a joke at a time like this. He wanted to punch him, and he wanted to hold him.

Hogan clasped Peter’s hand tightly. “I’m coming for you. Trust me.”

“I trust you, Sir,” Peter said in his most confident tone.

LeBeau slid in front of Hogan again and cupped Peter’s cheek in his hand.

“ _Au revoir, mon frangin_ ,” LeBeau whispered. “Until we meet again, eh?” He leaned in to kiss his cheeks. He could feel the warmth of fever and taste the salt of his own tears where they had dropped.

“Soon?” Peter asked in a small voice. He wrapped his arms around LeBeau. ”Very soon?”

“Very soon, Pierre. I feel certain _notre Colonel_ will help us both. Now, remember what I told you? _Je t’aime. Tu me manqueras,_ ” he whispered into Peter’s ear. He stroked his hair, and poked at his chest. “Now go. And don’t tease the nurses.”

“Until you get there to help...” Peter said with a grin

“Until I get there to help,” LeBeau responded. Bending down to bestow one more kiss, he heard _“Je t’aime”_ whispered back in his ear.

XXX

It took a week, but LeBeau and Hogan located Peter, as they promised they would, at the tent city next to the American Camp Lucky Strike. By then, he was gasping for breath, delirious with fever and oblivious to anything but the sheer effort of inhaling and exhaling. A triage tag that hung at the head of his bed marked his status as Red, meaning immediate evacuation was ordered. Hogan peered closer. It was dated three days earlier.

At that point Hogan himself saw red.

He buttonholed Captain Morehouse-Hart, the doctor on duty, and dragged him to Peter’s bedside. “His status is Red. Why hasn’t he been transported? He can barely breathe.” LeBeau had slid behind Peter on his cot, raising his chest up to ease his respiration, and was looking up at Colonel Hogan with barely controlled rage, mixed with terror.

Even at 9 o’clock in the morning, the doctor looked exhausted. He had probably not slept a full night in many days, judging from how drawn and unwell he looked. “He’s in the queue, Colonel,” Morehouse-Hart said wearily. “There are many sick and injured men.”

“This man has been a prisoner for five years, Captain,” Hogan replied fiercely. “I want him moved to the head of the line.” For good measure, he added, “And this man is going with him to ensure his safe arrival,” gesturing to LeBeau.

“A Frenchman? Why on earth...?”

At that moment, a British Air Marshal strolled over. “Hogan? I’ve been looking for you. I was told you were in camp.” He leaned in and shook Hogan’s hand and said softly, “Panther.”

Hogan stepped back and breathed with relief. It was his lucky day. Air Marshal Woodhouse, code name Panther, was the RAF officer with direct oversight of wartime efforts to rescue, debrief and redeploy British POWs. He had helped to conceive the Unsung Heroes operation, and shared command responsibilities in London with an American, General Butler.

Woodhouse was big brass, not a day-to-day contact—their man in London was a British colonel from the intelligence corps, James Wembley. But Woodhouse regularly weighed in on difficult issues, such as the execution of major operations including captures, VIP prisoner exchanges and eventually D-Day plans. He also had a hand in vexing issues, such as the matter of Newkirk’s service when it was discovered that he was still under 18. Now Woodhouse was in France to direct repatriation operations in coordination with other Allies.

“Air Marshal Woodhouse, Sir. Corporal Newkirk is in serious condition. He’s been waiting three days for transport.”

Woodhouse moved toward the cot where Peter was leaning into LeBeau’s chest. The Air Marshal bent down and laid a hand on the Corporal’s head. “Rupert?” he asked, looking up at Hogan, who nodded. Yes, Newkirk’s codename had been the same as the feisty little bear from a popular series of British children’s books.

Doctor Morehouse-Hart did a double-take at Newkirk’s chart. “It says Peter here. Not Rupert.”

“Peter, Rupert, it hardly matters,” Woodhouse said dismissively to the doctor. “This cub belongs on the next plane. See to the paperwork,” he ordered. As the doctor headed off, Woodhouse turned to LeBeau. “Who are you?”

“Fadap, Sir,” LeBeau answered. It was his code name, after the metal button marked “Fadap-France” in the ear of teddy bears all across his homeland.

“Ah, good man, Fadap,” Woodhouse said. “You’ve served courageously.”

Hogan didn’t miss his chance. “I want him to accompany Rupert to London, Sir. He can advocate for him.” 

“No other British on your team, eh Hogan? Pity. Well, by all means, send our friend Fadap along.” He turned to LeBeau. “You’re willing, I take it? You _can_ decline, and if you do and we’ll send someone else to tend him. There’s no shame in wanting to get back to your own home.”

“I would always rather be in Paris, but Pierre needs me in London, so to London I go,” LeBeau replied. “ _Merci bien_ , Air Marshal.”

“Team members should stick together,” Woodhouse said. He leaned down and squeezed one of Peter’s hands. "Butler always called him 'tough little bear,' and he was right of course. We'll get him better, Hogan. Have no doubt."

Hours later, they were on board an RAF Dakota aircraft, in a section of the rear fuselage set aside for medical evacuees. LeBeau was seated shoulder to shoulder with other former POWs, mostly Canadian and British. His back was to a window, and he was staring across a row of stretchers to Peter, who was six feet away from him. As he felt the aircraft begin its descent, he craned his neck to peer out the window. It was a crisp, clear afternoon in late April.

LeBeau had never seen London from the air, but he didn’t need to in order to understand the scale of destruction that had rained down from the skies. As they flew over the London docklands, he saw miles of rubble. He had been to London before the war, and know how vibrant the Port of London was. Now it lay in ruins. Somewhere down there, he realized, was Peter’s home.

His eyes shifted to the frail figure lying propped up on a stretcher. A flight nurse was holding an aviator oxygen mask, designed for a pilot’s use, to his face. He was struggling less; perhaps it was helping.

A telegram had been dispatched to summon a family member—hopefully his sister Mavis—to meet them when they landed at RAF Oakley, three hours from London by train. If, by some miracle, one of them made it, they would accompany Peter to the designated hospital for returning POWs at RAF Cosford, four hours from London in Shropshire.

LeBeau closed his eyes and prayed for that miracle. Peter needed his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When he says goodbye to Peter, LeBeau is saying “I will miss you,” but the words literally mean, “you will be missing from me.” LeBeau explained the meaning of this phrase to Newkirk in chapter 38 of “A Minor Problem.”
> 
> Air Marshal Woodhouse was introduced in chapter 21 of "A Minor Problem," as was Peter's code name (but not LeBeau's--that is new.) I thought Papa Bear’s cubs should have secret bear code names, and Rupert Bear is a British comic book character from the 1920s, so he seemed perfect for Newkirk. Rupert is a smart and resourceful little bear who has big adventures and regularly outwits villains.


	4. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit shorter than I intended it to be, but I wanted to get something posted this weekend, so I ended this chapter before bringing a certain American Colonel back into the scene. There will be one or possibly two more chapters of background from the end of the war before we move the narrative back to Paris in 1946.

**May 1945**

It took eight days before Mavis Newkirk got the word that her brother was back on British soil. She’d made her weekly stop at the Post Office to check for mail addressed to the pile of rubble that used to be the family home in Stepney. Mum wasn’t up to the task; nor was she available. She was in Norfolk with Nora and Neddie, staying with two of her oldest daughters and trying to figure out how to carry on after losing her livelihood, her home, and two of her children. When the V-2 flying rocket shattered their lives in September 1944, Violet was 22 and in the bloom of young womanhood; Georgie was two weeks shy of his 13th birthday.

Mavis tore open the letter and dashed straight to Euston Station to book a train fare. She’d find time later to pack and notify her boss that she’d been called away on a family emergency. There had been a lot of those lately, and her floor supervisor at the rope factory would just have to understand. Mavis wouldn’t be employed in this job much longer anyway, and she knew it. Men would be pouring back into London soon, and they would get the jobs.

So on the ninth day, she boarded a bus to Liverpool Street, the tube to Euston, a train to Birmingham, another train to Cosford village, and finally a bus to the adjacent RAF station, where she set off in search of the Princess Mary’s Royal Air Force Nursing Service Hospital. It took seven hours and 19 minutes and a final journey through maze of wooden huts, but she finally found herself at the foot of her brother’s bed.

He was asleep, and a short man with dark hair was napping in the chair next to him. Mavis moved quietly to peer down at her little brother.

He was not so little any longer, she thought as she looked him over. She quickly did the math; she was 32 now, so he had to be 19. He'd clearly grown taller—but much, much thinner. His face was lean and shadowy. His hair was cut shorter than she'd seen it since a particularly bad lice infestation when all three boys were little. Was he eight then? Maybe nine? She fluttered her fingers over a scar on his forehead that she didn't recognize. She took his hand and rubbed her thumb over another scar, this one encircling his wrist. She spied a matching scar on his other wrist and shuddered. His hands had been bound. Bloody Nazis.

She heard a little shuffling sound, and looked up to see the man in the other chair leaning forward and smiling at her. He had lovely brown eyes, warm and wise.

“You must be Mavis,” he said. “I am LeBeau. Louis LeBeau.”

“LeBeau,” Mavis said with a hint of a smile. “Peter’s written to me about you.”

LeBeau reached across Peter’s bed and clasped Mavis’s hand, holding it firmly. “He’s doing better,” he said softly. “The first few days were awful, but the penicillin is working. We were worried about his breathing. He’ll be so happy to see you.”

Mavis relaxed into her breath. Someone was looking after Peter. Someone cared. “Thank you for looking after him,” she said. “He’s my ba-”

She caught herself being sentimental and bit back the word, knowing Peter would be mortified to hear it. “He’s my heart,” she corrected herself.

LeBeau studied her face. Her hair was darker than Peter’s, but the green eyes were unmistakable—this was Peter’s beloved eldest sister. She was tired and a little disheveled, yet somehow lovely, with creamy skin and a pert version of his nose and chin.

LeBeau let go of her hand, clapped his hands to his thighs, and stood. “Sit with him. You’ve had a long journey. Let me get you a cup of tea and something to eat.” He rose, stretched, and went to find the orderly who’d been keeping him and other guests fed and watered.

Mavis watched LeBeau leave, then looked up and down the long row of beds. Men, lonely and with no visitors, were looking at her. She smiled and nodded, then turned her attention back to her brother. She ran a hand across his forehead. He was just warm enough, she thought. A good sign.

His eyes fluttered at the touch. He was drowsy and couldn’t hold them up for long, but then she spoke.

“Peter, it’s me, Mave. I’m here with you, love,” she said, leaning close to his ear.

That got his attention. She watched him struggle to keep his eyes from drooping, and she couldn’t help but laugh. She’d missed this face that she knew so well. Looking at him, she still saw the little boy she protected so fiercely. She saw him chattering away happily with her and Mum, but muting himself whenever he saw his father or grandmother or a stranger, or when he stepped outside the front door.

She watched with motherly affection as he finally wrestled past his fatigue. His eyes were sleepy, but they were open, and a smile crinkled his lips.

“Mave, it’s really you. You came,” he croaked. He cleared his throat and immediately winced, pressing a hand to his ribs.

“It is me, and you are a horrible, naughty boy, Peter Newkirk,” she said with mock annoyance. “Running off and joining the bleeding RAF and getting yourself caught and worrying me sick.”

“I’m sorry, Mavis,” Peter replied solemnly. “I never meant to w-worry you.” His eyes flicked right. “Wh-wh-where did Louis go?” he asked with obvious anxiety creeping into his tone.

“I am right here, _mon pote_ ,” LeBeau said as he rounded a corner at the end of the ward. He was bearing two mugs of tea and a plate with a thin sandwich. He put them all down on Peter’s bedside table and gestured graciously. “The tea is strong and milky, with three lumps for Pierre and two lumps for Mademoiselle,” he said with a smile. “I’m sorry the sandwich isn’t much, but perhaps it is enough for now.”

“How did you know how I take my tea?” Mavis said with an amused expression on her face.

“Nearly ffffive years in a bleeding POW camp. There w-weren’t much else to talk about, Mavis,” Peter said. He inhaled sharply and protectively touched his ribs again.

“What’s wrong, Peter?” Mavis asked, frowning.

“Broken ribs from coughing,” Peter replied.

“And sore chest muscles from pleurisy,” LeBeau added. “But he’s off oxygen now. That’s a good sign,” he said.

“Oxygen?” Mavis said. “What…? Peter, are you going to be alright…?”

“Shhh, now don’t take on so, Mave,” Peter said softly. “Of course I’ll be alright. I’m always alright. You should eat,” he added, nodding his head toward the table. He settled himself into a marginally more comfortable position and deliberately perked up his tone, despite the pain he was feeling. “I can’t wait to see Mum and Nora and the lads. Do you think they could come out to Shropshire to visit me? Ned and Georgie would like the countryside.”

Mavis’s face fell. She couldn’t possibly tell him, not right now. “I know they’d like to be able to do that, Peter,” she said with a tight smile. She leaned in to kiss his cheek and realized that he smelled of shaving cream. He had grown so much.

“And the other girls too, Mave?” he asked as LeBeau held his tea mug to his lips. He took it from his friend with a smile. “I want you to meet everyone,” he told LeBeau. “Except the old man.”

“They all want to. I know they do,” Mavis repeated, brushing a hand over his hair. “For now you’ve got me and your mate LeBeau, alright, love?”

Peter smiled back at her and nodded as he drank his tea, his eyes conveying complete trust. LeBeau watched the brother and sister, aglow together and cherishing one another’s companionship, and his heart leaped. Peter was sweetly contented in Mavis’s presence.

**XXX**

LeBeau could see a dark shadow cross Mavis’s face as Peter drifted back to sleep. He was clutching her hand like it was anchoring him to reality, confirming that her company was not a mere dream. LeBeau noticed something in her expression that he knew all too well, a tinge of worry and secrecy, the look of someone who was accustomed to keeping up a good front. He’d seen it often. The features were simply softer, rounder, feminine.

“He really will be alright,” LeBeau said seriously, reaching across Peter to take Mavis’s hand again. “He’s doing much better.”

Mavis sighed, and the darkness deepened. “Is there somewhere where we can talk privately, Monsieur LeBeau?”

**XXX**

LeBeau was stunned. Mavis was crying, fresh tears for an old wound.

“I am so sorry,” he said, gulping back the lump in his throat. “Both of them?” he added incredulously.

“Yes. Georgie was the baby of the family. Not even thirteen, and still playing with his toy soldiers. He couldn’t wait for Peter to come home and play with him, down on the floor like they used to do. I kept telling him Peter was a grown man now… well, he thought Peter would play anyway.”

LeBeau had seen Pierre with Hannelore and Joshka, and even with Anja. Yes, he was sure he would have played with Georgie, at least for a while. But he didn’t interrupt Mavis. She must have been ruminating the entire way from London over what to tell her little brother.

“And Violet—well, she was so sunny and warm. She had long, red hair—the only one of our girls who was a redhead, like Neddie is—and Peter used to love to brush it and play with it. She was the sweetest girl, and she’d just met a young man. They were supposed to go dancing that night, and we all thought it was just a matter of time before they...,” Mavis said. She ran out of steam at the thought of a future her sister would never have, and finally said in a strangled voice, “How am I going to tell Peter?”

“When did you say it happened?” LeBeau persisted.

“September,” Mavis said.

“That was eight months ago!” LeBeau exclaimed. He instantly regretted the accusatory tone, but he didn’t understand why no one had seen fit to tell Peter about his family.

“We couldn’t put it in a letter to the poor boy,” Mavis said angrily. “I know he’s a soldier to you, but to me, he’s my little brother. He wasn’t old enough to join up. He was never supposed to…” She broke off the sentence, sobbing softly into her handkerchief.

LeBeau spoke gently, nodding with understanding and put an arm around her shoulder. “For five years, he has been my little brother too,” he said. He looked in her eyes. “I taught him to shave.”

She half-laughed, half-cried at that. “Well, someone had to, didn’t they? He was just a child.”

LeBeau nodded, while Mavis went on. “He’s a brave boy, you know? Too brave for his own good, I’m afraid. The minute he got tall as Mum and me, he thought he was the man of the house, and the next thing we knew he was gone to soldiers. He was still a skinny little thing, and I swear he didn’t know his arse from his elbow yet, but he was determined to make sure Nora and the little ones were provided for. What business did the RAF have, taking a little nipper like that?"

“We didn’t know for a long time how young he was, but once we understood, we took good care of him,” LeBeau said in warm and reassuring tone. “But you are right, Mademoiselle Mavis, he is brave and strong. He fought at Dunkirk, he stood up to interrogators, and he … he did many things of which he can be very proud. He’s not a boy anymore. He is a young man now. He has the right to know.”

Mavis nodded, accepting his words, but unsure what to do. “I don’t know how to tell him. His little brother’s gone, his big sister’s gone, his Mum can’t stop crying, and he doesn’t have a home to go to,” she said simply. “There’s nothing left of our street, Monsieur…”

“Please, called me Louis,” LeBeau interjected.

“Louis. Yes. Thank you. There’s nothing left at all,” she said. “He can come to Canada with me,” she said decisively.

“Canada?” LeBeau said.

“I’m engaged. My fiancé will stay here for at least a year, but … well, after that, I have to go with him to Ottawa. I’m sure Peter can come. He’s only nineteen, he’ll need someone to live with, and he’s my responsibility. He always has been my boy to look after.”

She seemed so overwhelmed, but LeBeau knew for certain that there was one thing Pierre would be happy to hear.

“It’s wonderful that you’re engaged. I know Pierre will be thrilled for you,” LeBeau said. He put a hand to his chin and thought for a moment. “Our Colonel will be coming soon. Perhaps he can help tell your brother what has happened. Peter trusts him like a father.”


	5. Au Revoir

The news was shattering; there was no other word for it. It smashed Peter into emotional splinters, even with Colonel Hogan, Mavis and LeBeau there the next morning to break it to him.

There were no tears, no words, no sounds at all from him. He sat still as a figure in a painting as his companions exchanged anxious looks. His sister clutched his hand, but he didn’t respond; his fingers lay limp in her grip.

“Peter, do you understand?” Hogan asked gently.

The words washed over him, even when Hogan stroked his head in the fatherly way he had. All Peter could hear was the thumping of his heart and pulsing of his blood. All he could see was throbbing lights. He lay propped on two pillows, staring at a water stain gathering on the whitewashed ceiling of the hospital ward.

They fussed over him, but he didn’t—couldn’t—respond. He felt a cup pressed to his lips, felt water trickle down his chin, and didn’t care. A nurse with wisps of gray hair was standing by, and he could see her head wagging, but she was blurry, like an image in a frame of film that was still in the developing tray. Her voice was underwater. “He’s in shock,” she burbled slowly. “Give him time.”

He didn’t speak again for three days, then gradually he emerged from his shell, talking and eating a bit, but without enthusiasm for anything. He never mentioned or asked about the awful news again, nor did he ask Mavis when the rest of the family would visit.

Hogan’s visits were intermittent, a few hours here and there, but LeBeau and Mavis stayed by Peter’s side throughout the daytime, retreating to rooms in a nearby inn each night.

Two weeks later, just as things were looking up, a chest cold that had rampaged through the sick ward triggered a relapse of Peter’s pleurisy. Then an allergic reaction to the penicillin used to treat the illness sent his fever soaring. One restless night, he sat up in bed, delirious, and began tugging at the covers, turning over pillows, and searching for his brother and sister.

“I know I can find them. We j-j-just have to dig,” he exclaimed in his confusion. “Louis, help me dig,” he said, tugging at LeBeau’s shirt. “We’ve done this. We can do it again.” He got on his knees to scratch at the mattress until LeBeau and an orderly settled him back down. He had to be restrained for the rest of that night.

Weeks passed, and though the illness subsided, his health remained delicate. He coughed, wheezed and spiked fevers, then had easy days alternating with difficult ones. He hadn’t walked in nearly two months. Unwilling to leave Peter’s side, Mavis quit her job and sent her fiancé to pack up her bedsit.

At the end of May, LeBeau was ordered back to Paris after Hogan—he was General Hogan now—had exhausted every excuse for keeping him nearby.

On the day of his departure, LeBeau came into the sick ward to tell his friend he was leaving. He sat by the bed, as he had for five weeks, providing help and companionship as Peter struggled through breathing treatments, antibiotic infusions, painful exercises to keep his arms and legs from atrophying, and aggressive feeding regimens. LeBeau took turns with Mavis to ensure Peter’s comfort, alleviate his boredom, and see that he ate. Between it all, they talked about the past, and the future. LeBeau spoke of opening a restaurant; Mavis shared her hopes of building a new life with her Canadian beau, Alan Puckett. Peter took it all in with a smile, but added little. He was too busy trying to stay awake and breathe to imagine a future for himself.

Mavis was off at a brief meeting with Peter’s doctor and nurses when the hour finally came for LeBeau to leave. He pulled the privacy curtain around the hospital bed and took Peter’s hand.

“It’s time, Pierre. I’ll be back in Paris in three days,” he said softly. “Colonel Hogan says I will be discharged very soon after that, and then I will come to see you again, _d’accord_?”

“You can’t come back j-j-just to look after me, Louis,” Peter said, trying to sound firm. “Please don’t wwworry. I’ve got Mavis with me now, and you have to get on with your life. There are people you need to see.”

“Yes, but you will always be part of my life,” LeBeau said. “ _Mon fr_ _érot,_ ” he said, clasping Peter’s hand between both of his.

“ _Mon grand fr_ _ère, toujours_ ,” Peter replied.

“You see? I have to come back. Your French accent is atrocious,” LeBeau said.

Peter started to laugh, but it triggered a worrisome round of coughing and wheezing. A nurse popped in, shook her head, and returned with a syringe of epinepherine and a glass of water. LeBeau rubbed a circle on his friend’s back as the nurse administered the injection. Then he gave him sips of water, and gradually Peter's breathing evened out again. Peter looked at LeBeau, miserable over the state of his health.

“Don’t be discouraged, Pierre,” LeBeau told him. “You are getting better with each day. You will gain some weight and gradually you will be stronger. I will write to you when I am back in Paris, _oui_? And I think that as soon as you are better, I will take you to Paris to visit me in my city.”

“I wanted to show you London, but there’s not much to show, is there?” Peter looked down, and his lip began to quiver in a way that LeBeau had seen many times before—in a dark, dank cooler as rats scurried by; in a dismal barn as gunfire rang outside; in the tunnels under Stalag 13; in an infirmary bed as he fought off injuries and illness.

LeBeau sat on the bed and pulled his friend close. “Who is _mon petit fr_ _ère_?” he said softly.

“I am,” Peter replied in muffled tones as he buried his face in LeBeau’s chest.

“Correct. And who will always care for you, no matter what?”

“You will.”

“Correct again. And who will always come back, every single time, even if you don’t want me to? Who _always_ comes back?”

“You will. And you do,” Peter said, crying hard now. “Oh, Louis.”

“ _Chut, chut_ , I will come back to you as soon as I can to make sure you are eating and listening to the doctors and not giving anyone a hard time,” LeBeau gently lectured. He looked up and smiled at Mavis, who had returned and was watching, her own eyes filled with tears. “Especially the beautiful Mademoiselle Mavis, who if it is even possible, loves you more than I do. But only because she is a woman and your sister and therefore capable of much greater depth than I.”

 _“Je t’aime tellement, Louis_ ,” Peter whispered.

“Again, with the accent,” LeBeau groaned. He whispered back, “But a very good word, _tellement_. You are actually coming along quite well, but only because I’ve taught you relentlessly for five years. _Je t’aime de tout mon Coeur, Pierre.”_

Peter pulled himself back from LeBeau’s arms and gave him a wan smile. Then he reached out his hand and ran it over LeBeau’s face, every inch of it, feeling his eyes, his cheek, his jaw. Wordlessly and intently, he worked his way down to his shoulders, ran his hands over his arms and pressed into his biceps, stroked his forearms and hands, and explored his fingers.

“What are you doing, Pierre?” LeBeau asked, half amused, half alarmed.

“I’m memorizing you,” Peter replied.

Mavis smiled and laid a hand on her brother’s back. “That’s right, and you’ve got him all down now, Peter. It’s alright to let him go.” Peter withdrew his hands and nodded his head shyly.

“ _Maintenant, faire la bise à moi_ ,” LeBeau said to Peter, and they kissed each other’s cheeks in the French way. Then he stood and exchanged the same farewell with Mavis.

“ _Au revoir, mon pote_ ,” he said, ruffing Peter’s hair one last time. “Look after Mavis.”

Peter nodded and smiled as his sister settled onto the bed to sit beside him, but he said nothing more. He watched as LeBeau ducked out of the curtain, turned to lean into Mavis’s bosom, and bit back the urge to sob. It was time to let go of another piece of his heart, and there was no point fighting it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make the French words evident from the context, but here's a list just in case:
> 
> “D’accord?” – an interjection that means “OK?” in this context  
> “Mon frérot” – LeBeau’s pet term for Newkirk, a diminutive of brother, so it means “kid” or “little brother”  
> “Mon grand frère, toujours” – “My big brother, always.”  
> “Mon petit frère”—“My little brother.”  
> “Chut, chut” – The French version of “Shhh” or “Hush”  
> “Je t’aime tellement” – “I love you so much.”  
> “Je t’aime de tout mon coeur” – “I love you with all my heart”  
> “Maintenant, faire la bise à moi” – “Now, give me a kiss.” The only member of the team that LeBeau ever kisses on the show itself is Newkirk, in the episode “Cuisine à la Stalag 13.” LeBeau is also the only person who ever calls Newkirk by his first name. These and a few other details are strong pieces of evidence for their strong brotherly affection for one another.  
> "Au revoir, mon pote" -- "Till we meet again, buddy." LeBeau frequently calls Newkirk "mon pote" in the show -- not mon ami, which is stuffy and formal.


	6. Grosvenor Square

**August 1945**

“That’s it. Easy does it,” General Hogan said as he ascended the steep stairs inside his Upper Brook Street townhouse just off Grosvenor Square.

“I’m alright, Sir. I j-just get a bit winded. As soon as I have a moment to sit, I’ll be fffffine,” Peter replied. He was trying not to lean on Hogan as he guided him up the stairs, but he could feel himself losing that battle. Hogan’s arm was around his waist and was hoisting him up now.

“Your room is two stories up, just above mine. You’re going to get a lot of practice going up and down stairs,” Hogan said with an attempt at good cheer. “Let’s stop here.” He pulled Peter through a doorway to a large room rigged out with stiffly upholstered armchairs and sofas and tables shined to a bright gloss.

Peter settled into the chair and focused on evening out his breath, then looked around and gawped.

“Blimey,” he said. “This isn’t half posh.”

“It comes with the job,” Hogan said, shrugging. “The assumption is that I’ll entertain guests.” He put his hands on his hips and looked around. “They call this the salon. I call it the museum. I’m afraid to touch anything.” He smiled at Peter. “Upstairs is much cozier. Let me know when you’re ready.”

“I’ll be ready in just a tick, Sir,” Peter said, but the wheezing sound that escaped with the “S” in sir was a dead giveaway. He needed to sit for a while.

“Hang on,” Hogan said. He stepped outside to the hallway, and Peter could hear a buzzer ringing. Moments later, a gray-haired lady in a dark green tweed suit appeared at the door.

“Mrs. Holtzman, this is my ward, Peter Newkirk. Can you organize some refreshments for him before we head upstairs?”

The lady replied with an American accent. “Very well, Sir. Mr. Newkirk, is there anything in particular you’d like?”

Peter looked stunned. “T-t-toast and tea, Ma’am?” he said tentatively.

“And some sandwiches,” Hogan added. “Coffee for me.”

“And you’ll take it here,” Mrs. Holtzman said with a smile. “Very well. Let me know if you require anything further, General. Sir,” she said with a nod toward Peter.

“Oh, you d-d-don’t…” Peter began saying, but she was gone before he could communicate that he not only didn’t expect to be called “Sir,” he was mortfified by it.

“You have a servant?” he said to Hogan.

Hogan shrugged. “It’s a big house, Peter, somebody’s got to run it. You’ll meet the rest of them…”

“There’s more?” Peter said, sounding nearly scandalized.

“Yes. Staff of five. It’s standard with this embassy assignment. I’m still getting used to it.”

Peter’s eyes flicked around the room, taking in the elegant upholstery, the thick Persian rugs, the opulent paintings on the walls. Hogan was right; it was a museum. “Maybe I should go, Sir,” Peter said, squirming uncomfortably in his chair. “I don’t think this is the right place for me at all.”

When Hogan replied, it was with a well-rehearsed tone of gentle insistence “Peter, we’ve been over all of this. You’re nineteen years old and you’re still recovering from malnutrition, pneumonia, pleurisy and…” His voice trailed off before he could say “depression.” Then, after a brief pause, Hogan went on, “Where is it you propose to go?”

“Well, Mavis has room…”

“Yes, if she sleeps on the sofa five feet away from you,” Hogan said.

“Maybe she can get a larger place if we start looking now,” Peter replied.

“There’s a housing shortage; you know that. Larger places are prioritized for much larger families,” Hogan said. “There are empty rooms here, Peter, and I’d like to have you with me.”

“You would want me here, Sir?” Peter looked anxious as he asked, but they’d talked about this numerous times too. Hogan knew he needed to be reassuring.

“Of course I would. I’m your friend and I’m your guardian, Peter, and I’m prepared to take care of you,” he said. He leaned closer, resting a hand on Peter’s arm. “I’m your dad for as long as you need me, OK?”

Peter’s mouth was a bit slack and his eyes were locked with Hogan’s as he nodded agreement. “Promise?” he said.

“I promise,” Hogan said, tightening the grip on his arm. “Come on, let’s get your jacket off,” he said, helping Peter to slide off his gray suit jacket. Then Hogan removed his olive green belted tunic and loosened his tie. “I’ll never get used to summers in London,” Hogan said. “It never warms up enough to switch to a summer dress uniform. It’s wool all year around.”

“It was 75° today, Sir,” Newkirk said with a grin. “Practically a scorcher.” There was a twinkle returning to his eye as he said it—he’d had this argument with every Yank in Barracks 2 at Stalag 13. He’d been astonished by reports that U.S. temperatures routinely soared into the 90° range during summer, and had even been known to exceed 100°. He halfway imagined everyone was pulling his leg until one night in the tunnel Kinch yanked an almanac off a shelf and proved it.

Hogan responded with a warm smile and quickly all distress was gone. Hogan told Peter all about the house’s amenities, including a billiards room. There was a garden—at least that’s what Peter assumed he meant by “back yard”—where they could kick a football. There were baseball gloves, and they would play catch when Peter felt up to it. Yes, Mavis could come visit. Yes, his mum and Nora and Neddie could, too.

Eventually a persistent squeak announced the approach of sustenance. A young girl, no older than Peter, steered into the room guiding a tea trolley loaded up with goodies. A pot of tea, a pot of coffee, a pile of sandwiches, a silver toast rack, and a tiered platter of cookies.

Peter looked at it and felt tears welling up in his eyes. It was so much food. He was sure his Mum and his sisters and brothers—no, he meant brother—weren’t getting anything this plentiful and tempting to eat.

The girl, with strawberry blond hair and a smattering of freckles, smiled at him as she picked up the teapot to pour out the tea. “Do you take milk, Sir?” she asked.

“Ah, ah, yes,” he said. “Could, could you just call me P-P-Peter?”

She added milk to a cup, then smiled demurely at him, but didn’t reply. “One lump or two, Sir?”

“Three for Peter,” Hogan replied. “It’s fine for you to call him that, Dottie. Peter, this is Dorothy and I think she’s from your old neighborhood.”

“Oh, oh, oh, really? Wh-whereabouts?” Peter asked.

“Isle of Dogs,” Dorothy replied. “I heard you’re from Stepney. Mrs. Holtzman told us you were coming.”

“Th-that’s right. Th-th-there’s nothing left of our place,” Peter said.

“We had to move to my Granny’s in Clapham,” Dorothy said. Suddenly she blushed and dipped her head downward. “Begging your pardon, Sir, I’m being much too forward,” she said with a curtsey to Hogan, who frowned and waved away any concerns.

“Please, no apologies,” Hogan said. “Stay and talk.”

“D-didn’t Clapham get hit hard too, though?” Peter asked. “It can’t be much better than the Docklands.”

“It’s not. It’s only that the flat is still standing. There’s rubble all around it, but we have a roof over our heads, and we’re all together. And that’s what really matters, isn’t it?” Dorothy said, smiling sweetly.

Together would be awfully nice, Peter thought, but he found the right thing to say. “That’s what’s important,” he said. “It’s good for families to be together.”

“Well, a good night to you both, gentlemen. Ring if you need anything at all. I’m on until midnight.” She exited, leaving the men with their bounty of food.

“How does she get home safely at midnight, Sir? A little slip of a girl like that, she shouldn’t be out alone at night!” Peter said, looking anxiously toward the door.

Hogan hadn’t thought of that; it had only been six weeks since he settled into his new assignment at the embassy and he’d barely spent time in the grand new quarters that came with it. He crossed his arms in thought.

“I don’t know, Peter, but I’ll find out, alright?” He reached out for a sandwich. “Now eat. Louis is not going to be happy to see you looking too thin.”

“No, he would nnn… did you say Louis, Sir?”

Hogan grinned. “Yep. Arriving tomorrow. He said he can stay for four weeks because Paris is completely dead in August. He won’t be opening his restaurant until October anyway.

“Wh-where’s he going to stay?”

“There’s a room right next to yours,” Hogan said. “They’re actually connected. You’ll see when we get up there. Now, come on, eat so we can get up the last two flights and get you settled in.”

**XXX**

Half an hour later, they mounted the last two flights of stairs and found themselves in a spacious, sunny bedroom. “All yours,” Hogan said. He opened a door. “There a bathroom here.”

Peter popped his head inside. “That’s the loo,” he said in amazement. “Oh. And a bath too. Blimey, Sir, it’s terribly grand.”

Over the course of a few official visits to the bombed East End, Hogan had gleaned a better sense of what accommodations Peter was accustomed to. “All the plumbing is indoors,” he said softly. “I think you’ll like that.”

Peter was quite sure he would. But this big room was another matter.

”Where do you stay, Sir?” There was an anxious edge to Peter’s voice.

”We passed my room on the stairs. I’m directly below you.” He gestured toward a big double bed made up in plush white linens. “Sit down. Try it out.” 

Peter complied, bouncing up and down tentatively on the edge of the bed. He was deep in thought, and his face now matched the worry in his voice. He bounced again and gave Hogan a crooked smile. 

”What’s the matter, Peter?” he asked. He sat beside him and pulled him into a hug. “Everything is clean and comfortable. You’ll be safe here.”

”I j-j-just never had anything so nice,” Peter murmured.

”I’m not sure I did either,” Hogan said, though that wasn’t true. He hadn’t lived in this grand scale, but he’d never lacked for comforts either.

Peter nestled into the arm that embraced him. “Sir?” he said. “I’ve never slept in a room by myself before, unless you count the cooler.”

It hadn’t dawned on Hogan, but of course he hadn’t.

”It’s ever so nice, Sir, but...” Peter started.

”There’s a room next door. I’ll sleep there until LeBeau comes,” Hogan said. He could feel Peter’s exhale of relief as he settled comfortably into his arms.


	7. Shaken Up, Settling Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers a lot of ground during the time when Peter is living with Hogan in London. All the themes in this chapter will be revisited later in the story. I was trying to move it along so that we can get back to Paris and the heart of the story in the next chapter. If anything is confusing, please let me know!

**October 1945**

Visits from his mates helped Peter find his footing. LeBeau stayed for the month of August; Carter overlapped for a week and remained until the first week in September, when he was off to the fall semester at Indiana University on the G.I. Bill. Kinch wanted to come, but he too was pursuing a higher education on the G.I. Bill, and spent much of August moving himself to Atlanta, where he was taking up engineering studies at Morehouse College.

Closeness to Hogan helped too. They shared meals, played cards, kicked around a football, and argued over the merits of baseball versus cricket.

One October afternoon, they motored up to Norfolk with Mavis to visit Peter’s sisters, Annie, Eliza and Helen, their growing brood of children, his brother Neddie, and his Mum. He fell into his mother’s arms and barely left her side for two days.

The next evening, in the car for the journey home, Peter was silent, lost in thought. Mavis had stayed on for two more nights, so it was just Peter and Hogan.

Hogan looked on and worried as he drove. To Peter, Norfolk might as well be the moon. It was far away and he had no desire to spend any time there. But the news he had received—well, that might as well be another galaxy.

Mum and Neddie were leaving in January, immigrating to Australia with Helen and her husband Jim and their two little boys. “A new start,” they told him, and he had no doubt his Mum needed it. Her eyes were haunted by loss, and so were Neddie’s. But the conversation with Helen had taken an unexpected twist that left Peter angry.

_“Nora’s decided not to go, Peter. She’s doing well in Bournemouth with Auntie, and she’s working in her button and bows shop,” Nellie told him. “But you can come if you want to do. Give us six months to get settled before you come out, and in the meantime you can start your paperwork.”_

_Peter shook his head sadly as he sat holding his older sister’s hand. “I wwwaited so long to get back to London, love. I don’t want to leave. And if Nora and Mavis are staying… and at least the other girls are here in Norfolk…”_

_“I know,” Nellie said, stroking his cheek. “This is your home. And I hear you’ve got quite a nice living arrangement with that attractive general of yours,” she added. “He’s an important man, he is.” She paused. “Peter, his interest in you… well why did he bring you to live with him?”_

_“I was on his team at the Stalag,” Peter said. “He was my commanding officer for three years, and when they found out I was underage he became my guardian.” He couldn’t explain all that their association meant, how much they’d done to bring the war to an end, or how closely their little team had grown, or how Hogan had come to be a father to him._

_“Does he take in everybody who was on his team, then?” Helen asked._

_“No, of course not… Wh-what? What are you saying, Nell?”_

_“It’s just that you’re a handsome young boy, and he’s an unmarried, wealthy man. He’s not taking advantage of you, is he, Peter?” she whispered._

_“Of, of course he isn’t! He’s the Gov, he is! He would never! Blimey, Nell.” Peter dropped her hand and stood. “Mavis!” he called out. “Talk to Helen!” She came toward him, and he brushed against her for a moment, hurt obvious in his eyes._

_“Tell her about Colonel Hogan,” he said, resting a hand on Mavis’s arm. “Tell her how he saved me bloody life when there was no one else to help me. Tell her he’s my dad, not… not anything else.” Then he walked off, hurt and angry, toward Hogan, who wrapped an arm around Peter and looked over his shoulder as Mavis laced into her sister._

_“What did you say to Peter, Helen?” Mavis demanded._

_“It’s Jim what brought it up, Mavis,” Helen said spitefully. “He’s seen plenty of that type in the Navy. Going after a young boy like Peter—it’s a disgrace.”_

_“There’s nothing of the kind going on, Nell,” Mavis said. “Peter needed a father, and General Hogan has stepped into the breach. That’s all it is. Peter joined the RAF when he was still a child, Nellie. He’s been in battle, he’s been a POW, and he’s been very ill. He needs time to have the life he never had. And he’s staying right here in England with the General and Alan and Nora and me looking after him. Australia’s much too far away.”_

_“But you and Alan are going to Canada! And Nora can’t look after anyone!” Her voice dropped. “And I still don’t buy what you’re selling me.”_

_“I’m not leaving for two more years, and I’ll take both of my little ones with me if they want to go,” Mavis said. “It’s their decision, no one else’s. And I’m not going to sink to your level and answer questions like that. Peter may be young, but he knows his own mind.”_

_“Not even Mum gets to have a word about this? Because she’s worried sick over Peter's... situation too! It don't look right, Mave.”_

_“Only because Jim is poisoning her mind,” Mavis spat. “Helen, it’s_ their _decision about Australia. Only Nora and Peter can decide. They're both over eighteen now,” she said simply, and she didn’t have to spell out what she was thinking. Everyone knew that as much as his Mum loved Peter, and as much as he adored her back, he’d always been Mavis’s little boy to look after. Mum had ten children. She had always been too busy for the ones in the middle—the twins, Peter and Nora. If Peter had to choose, he would pick Mavis, and Nora would choose Aunt Betty._

_When Peter and Hogan left a half hour later, Helen and Jim had gone for a long walk. There wasn’t a chance to say goodbye._

“Mavis should have come back with us,” Peter muttered as they rumbled through twilight along the country lanes en route to London.

Hogan sighed. “She’s trying to reason with them, Peter, and set them straight.”

“Jim Skeffington has a dirty mind, saying things like that about us,” Peter said.

Hogan kept quiet; he needed to think. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone would look askance at his decision to give Peter a home in quite that way. Taking Peter in was still the right thing to do, and he knew it.

“Unfortunately, Peter, there are things we can’t tell anyone about our role in the war. If we could, it would probably explain a lot. The brass understands exactly why you’re living with me. So does Mavis. So do our friends. But…”

“But my family is ignorant and thick,” Peter said bitterly.

“No, Peter,” Hogan sighed. “They just don’t have complete information, and we can’t give it to them. So they make assumptions.” He drove along quietly, then added, “Mavis will set them straight.”

“I know she will. She won’t put up with any lies about either of us,” Peter said. “She knows what you and Louis have done for me, Sir.”

“That’s why she stayed, Peter. To talk things through with your family. To smooth things over. We’ll fetch her from train on Tuesday.”

“At Liverpool Street Station,” Peter said. “Could we have a look about the East End, Sir?”

“Of course, Peter,” Hogan said. “You can show me around.”

**XXX**

**December 1945**

The air was crisp and thin with the smell of winter, and Peter was accompanying Hogan to visit his family in Connecticut. It was his decision; the prospect of a three-week separation from Hogan left him uneasy, and Alan and Mavis were heading to Canada for a month’s visit. So Peter and Mavis worked it all out. They traveled together via ocean liner to New York, two weeks before Christmas, crossing the choppy Atlantic in five days. After a night in the city, Mavis and Alan set off by train to Ottawa, but Peter and Hogan remained for five days. Hogan had promised a special visitor.

He arrived by train from Atlanta, and greeted Peter with an all-enveloping bear hug. It was Kinch.

Hogan’s position permitted him to travel in style, and he and Peter were booked into adjoining rooms at The Plaza. Peter had finally overcome his wariness about having a room to himself and had learned to enjoy it.

Kinch was at the Hotel Theresa in Harlem, and brought them there for dinners in the spectacular two-story glass-walled dining room. The first night, they recognized Duke Ellington across the room; the next night, Billy Eckstine, Earl Hines, and Sarah Vaughan sat at the next table. By the third night, Hogan was wondering aloud why they weren’t all staying at the Hotel Theresa, and saying good riddance to The Plaza.

“You have a choice, Sir,” Kinch replied. “I don’t. This is a great hotel, but all things being equal, I’d rather have a choice.”

“Why can’t you stay at The Plaza?” Peter asked, looking puzzled.

Kinch and Hogan exchanged a wary look. Peter had witnessed prejudice at Stalag 13, but segregation wasn’t something he understood in his bones like Americans did. “Peter, they don’t let Negroes stay there,” Kinch replied.

“Why? Your money is as good as anyone else’s,” Peter protested.

“We know that, Peter, and they know that too,” Hogan said quietly. “Some people are just very opposed to mixing of the races.” He turned to Kinch and said forcefully, “It can’t last. Some of us are working to end segregation in the military.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Sir. Civil rights are something we talk about all the time at Morehouse. Our president, Dr. Benjamin Mays, well, he is a visionary. You know, there’s this kid in some of my classes—he’s only sixteen and he really should still be in high school, but they let some exceptional students start college early to keep enrollment up during the war. And does this young man ever have a passion for justice and a gift for oratory! You should hear him sometime. His name’s King and it can be hard to believe that he’s so young.”

“I’ve known a few people that I couldn’t believe were so young,” Hogan said with a grin.

Peter smiled at the compliment, but he knew Kinch was talking with reverence about a very different sort of skill than the ones a Cockney thief possessed. “He’s sixteen and at university? Blimey, he must be something special.”

“I’m pretty sure he is,” Kinch said. “One thing I’ve learned for sure is that you should never underestimate someone because of their age.”

“Or anything else,” Peter added firmly.

**XXX**

Hogan’s mother was in love. Hogan was pretty sure it was the accent, but Anne Hogan assured him it was something more. “He brings out the best in you, Robert,” she teased her eldest child. “You were horrible to your sisters and brother growing up, but the way he looks up to you—it’s obvious you’ve matured, dear.”

“Oh, that’s really nice, Mom,” Hogan ribbed her back, pecking her cheek as he said it. “I’m thirty-seven and I’m a general, for crying out loud. I hope I’ve matured.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying for years,” she shot back. “No, truthfully, dear, I can see you’ve had a good influence on him. And he is a very sweet boy.”

A sweet boy. Those weren’t words Hogan would have used about acid-tongued Peter Newkirk, the consummate thief and scoundrel, when they met in 1942. But the words happened to be true. Under that surface of toughness, there was a complicated person with an overriding need to be loved and accepted. It was as if he’d been saving up his trust for years before finally bestowing it on Hogan and LeBeau.

Hogan had confided in his mother about everything he could—Peter’s age, his desperate home circumstances, his struggle with his stutter, his yearning for fathers and brothers to help him along, the illnesses that nearly killed him late in the war, the devastating loss of his sister, his brother and his home, his difficult relationship with several family members. And their first meeting a decade earlier when Hogan was a young Captain stationed at the U.S. Embassy in London.

“Ten years old and a pickpocket. Imagine how desperate his life must have been, Robert,” Mrs. Hogan said softly. “Thanks be to God that we never had to struggle to support our children. Desperation can befall any poor child.”

“The coincidence of running into him again is what gets me,” Hogan said. “London’s not exactly a small town and World War II wasn’t a small war.”

“Oh, there are no coincidences, dear,” Mrs. Hogan said. “You were supposed to meet him then so you could understand him now, and so you could help him.” She smiled. ““It’s a pity you didn’t get to Mavis before that Alan Puckett fellow did. It sounds like you’re as crazy about her as Peter is.” She stopped again, and continued without hesitation. “I’m looking forward to the day when you have children of your own, Robert, and God knows you’ve made me wait, but you’ve done very well in the meantime. My first Hogan grandson!”

“His name’s Newkirk, Mom,” Hogan reminded.

“It doesn’t matter to me. He’s your son,” Mrs. Hogan said. “Anyone can see that.”

**XXX**

**January 1946**

Peter and Mavis took a train to Southampton, where they met up with Aunt Betty and Nora to see the rest of the family off at the dock. The Newkirk children took turns holding back tears while their mother cried in their arms. Peter pulled Neddie aside for a talk.

“I know you miss Georgie, Ned,” Peter said. “It’s alright to miss him.”

“I’m fifteen years old. I can’t be crying for my little brother,” Neddie said, his pride showing.

“Yes, you can. I’ve just turned twenty, and I cry about him,” Peter said.

“You’re twenty? When did that happen?” Neddie said in surprise.

“Three days before Christmas, when I was in America,” Peter said. “They gave me a party.”

“Jim says you’ve landed like a pig in shit, mate,” Neddie said. “Can’t say he’s wrong.”

Peter wasn’t sure. He knew he'd been very lucky, and he was grateful. But it hurt to feel so displaced. Everyone in his family was either aching or lost in their own world. Only Mavis and Nora had time for him; only they remembered his birthday. Not even Mum had sent a card or mentioned it. He was grateful Mrs. Hogan had made such a fuss, even preparing a cake with pink strawberry icing because she'd heard it was his favorite.

“Jim’s not right about everything, Neddie,” Peter said. “You don’t have to try and be like him. Be your own man.”

“I ain't got no one else to look up to,” Ned said. Then he looked embarrassed. “Well, of course, I have you, but you’re not going to be there, are you? I’ll have to take my chances with Jim Skeffington.”

**XXX**

He was sick again. The coughing had started in the wee hours of the night. Hogan ventured up to Peter’s room and found him shaking with chills as a fever set in, but it was the wheezing that made him send for the doctor.

“The epinephrine works quickly, but you already know that,” the doctor told Peter as he gasped for air. “Just relax.” He slid a needle into a vein, and within minutes Peter's breathing was a purr, not a rumble. He sank into the pillows in relief.

”It’s bronchitis, and at this time I don’t suspect pneumonia,” the doctor said, listening intently through a stethoscope. He patted Peter’s shoulder. “Recovery takes time, soldier,” he said. “The winter is the hardest time for those with lung conditions.”

”I d-don’t have a lung condition,” Peter said. “J-just a bit under the weather is all.” 

The doctor shot a look at Hogan. “A week’s bed rest. I’ll leave instructions for steam treatments. And if he has another asthma attack, contact me immediately.”

**April 1946**

“It’s just three months, Peter. You can come with me,” Hogan said.

“Why do you have to go at all?” Peter asked, the rising anxiety imparting a higher pitch to his voice. “I was j-j-just getting used to things the way they are.”

“Nothing has to change. This is temporary. Everyone at my level rotates through the Pentagon at some point. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I suppose so. I just… I just started making some friends.”

“Philip and Tim. I know,” Hogan said.

“Yes, and Dottie too,” Peter said. “And Mrs. Holtzman. And I don’t want to leave Mavis. I like to have tea with her every Friday. And I couldn't call Nora on the phone every week from America.”

“You could stay with Mrs. Holtzman here in the house if you really want to, Peter,” Hogan said. “But I did have another idea, in case you didn’t want to come with me. And I’ve already talked it over with LeBeau. How does a summer in Paris sound to you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I learned about The Hotel Theresa in Harlem by researching "The Negro Motorist Greenbook," which was a guide to safe travel for African Americans at a time when it was very common for them to be arrested arbitrarily or refused food or lodging while traveling. Especially if they had the nerve to travel by car! You can find these guides online for free.
> 
> Morehouse College was known at one time as "The Negro Harvard." It is one of the most prestigious of the historically black colleges and universities in the US, and I thought Kinch should find his way there. Dr. Benjamin Mays was the president of Morehouse College from 1940 to 1967, and he mentored a young man named Martin Luther King Jr., who entered Morehouse at age 15 under a wartime (1944) program that admitted high school juniors and seniors who passed a rigorous exam. It was a way of filling seats during the war. Morehouse played an important role in shaping leaders of the civil rights movement.


	8. Le Chef Stagiaire en Paris (The Trainee Chef in Paris)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to see the inspiration for LeBeau's apartment? It can be found here: https://www.nyhabitat.com/paris-apartment/furnished/3300
> 
> If you click twice going backwards through the pictures, you will find the floorplan. This really helped me visualize the space.

**Late April 1946**

They could have flown to Paris, of course, but LeBeau seemed intent on meeting them in Calais, so Peter and Hogan boarded a ferry on April 29, a week before Hogan’s planned departure for Washington. It was a Sunday, a day off for Louis, and even on the Channel, where the seas could be rough, the budding warmth and fresh promise of spring was evident.

They stood together on the upper deck as the French shoreline approached. Peter’s light brown hair, barely long enough to ruffle under most conditions, was undulating in a brisk wind. Hogan kept a knit watch cap on his head, because like most pilots, his jet black hair was on the long side, and there wasn’t enough Brylcreem in all of Great Britain to hold it in place at 18 knots.

Peter was gazing into the distance. “You’re sure you want to come off the ship with me, Sir? I’m certain I can fffind him myself.” The words “if I have to” went unspoken; he didn’t want to leave Hogan abruptly, even though he had no doubt he would find Louis. He asked the question without turning his head, fearing deep inside that the reunion with his best friend would vanish like a sweet dream if he dared to take his eyes off the coast.

“I don’t need to return until tonight, and I’d like to see LeBeau. We can have lunch in a café in Calais before you to head back to Paris,” Hogan said. He rested a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“I’d like that,” Peter said with a grin. Hogan could see the relief wash over his young charge, and he tugged him closer. Change was hard for Peter. The shift to LeBeau’s custody was welcome and it was short-term, Hogan knew, but that didn’t mean parting would be easy. Peter had come to depend on him more than ever, and they both knew it.

Peter had been fragile all autumn and winter, and not only physically. Some days simply getting him out of bed was a challenge. He had repeatedly invoked the phrase “Mayfair”—the private signal that Peter needed comfort and assurance—throughout the autumn and winter. Thus far, April had been Mayfair-free, and that was progress.

Hogan hadn’t pressed for an explanation, because he hadn’t needed to. Peter was struggling with abandonment and having difficulty getting back on his feet. A war he was too young to fight had stolen his youth, undermined his health, and wrecked his home and family. Hogan, Mavis and LeBeau were his only stability, and while they each took the responsibility seriously, the need to assure Peter of their commitment to him was constant.

If he had been psychic, Hogan would have known Peter was angry.

He was angry at his Mum for leaving him to go to Australia, and at Helen for taking her away. He was angry at Rose for being far away in America, and for not making time to see him when he was close by in December. He was angry at his brother-in-law Jim for saying things about why Hogan was helping him, and he was angry at Helen for believing him. He was angry at Neddie for deciding that being like Jim was a good idea, and for not being able to cry when he couldn’t stop. He was angry at Annie and Eliza for living in bloody Norfolk and never paying a whit of attention to him. He was angry at Alan Puckett for taking Mavis to Canada so she could fall in love with the place and with his bleeding family to boot. And he was angry beyond words at his old man, who’d come to the house just two weeks earlier and tried to persuade Colonel Hogan that he was needed at home, wherever that was, when all he wanted was an extra pair of hands for a job.

But nobody really knew what was on Peter’s mind—not even Peter himself, half the time. It seemed the only people in England he wasn’t angry with were Hogan, Mavis and Nora.

And of course Aunt Betty, Dottie and Mrs. Holtzman. But he couldn’t bare his soul to them, not any more than he could to his new friends, Tim and Philip, the twin sons of an American general. Americans who actually knew how to play football, no less. Actually, he was a bit angry at them, especially Tim, for leaving London to study at Oxford. They’d be back from university at the end of July, and he wouldn’t be there. It served them right.

As he mulled his complicated, mixed-up feelings, Peter kept his eyes on the shore. There, on the landing outside the terminal, he spotted a familiar figure. His beret was the wrong color and so were his jacket, trousers, and scarf, but everything else was exactly right. Peter was smiling and leaning into Colonel Hogan, but he was shaking a bit.

“Hey, don’t be nervous. He’s thrilled to have you with him,” Hogan said.

“Me too,” Peter said, burying his face in Hogan’s jacket. “I miss him all the time. I’ll miss you too, Sir.” He straightened his back, but he remained pressed to Hogan’s side.

“Same here, kiddo, but I’ll be back. And remember, we’ll talk once a week and write once a week, OK? You can’t hide what you’re up to from your old man.”

As the ferry approached the slip, its fenders suddenly kissed the dock bumpers, jostling the two men momentarily off balance. Their hug tightened briefly as they held each other upright. Peter let go, knowing he wouldn’t fall if Hogan had him.

“You alright?” Hogan asked, holding onto his arm.

Peter stepped back. “Sir, yes, Sir,” he said with a salute and a saucy grin. “Let’s go find LeBeau.”

**XXX**

After a leisurely dockside lunch with Hogan and a three-hour train ride, Louis and Peter were in Paris, stepping off the train at Gare du Nord and boarding Le Metro. “We take the No. 5 to Place de la Bastille, and we can walk from there,” Louis said. “It’s nine minutes.”

“Place de la Bastille? That’s a real place?” Peter said a bit louder than he should have. The train was crowded enough for them to stand, though not so crowded that his rucksack bothered anyone.

“ _D’accord_! There’s nothing left of the fortress except some markers on the ground, but most certainly, it is a very real place. We can walk from the Metro, five minutes.” He stopped for a moment. “Or switch to another train if you are tired, _mon pote_.”

“I’m fine, Louis. I’m strong again now.” He tugged at the pack on his back. “This is easy to carry.”

“You’ve come a long way since you were in hospital,” Louis said.

“Blimey, I should hope so. I don’t even like to think about how feeble I was,” Peter said, rolling his eyes.

Louis touched his jacket. “You’re still too thin, Pierre. We can fatten you up.”

“On bloody fish stew? Not a chance, mate,” Peter replied with a grin.

“ _Je pensais aux patisseries_ ,” Louis replied. “Pastries. _Répète après moi_.”

“Pastries,” Peter said.

“ _Pas ça, imbécile_ ,” Louis said. “ _Patisseries. Répète, Pierre_.”

“ _Pierre_ ,” Peter said.

“You never change,” Louis said, laughing. “You’re supposed to learn French, you know. Hogan’s orders.”

“ _Je pensais aux patisseries aussi_ ,” Peter replied. “ _J'ai toujours faim_.”

“Your accent is atrocious,” Louis said.

“So is yours, mate.”

They were so busy bantering that they nearly forgot to disembark at Bastille, but as they dashed to the door, a burly man held it open for them and they squeezed onto the platform just in time. Ascending a flight of stairs to emerge above ground, they walked in the direction of Louis’s flat as he kept up a patter about where they were going.

“My _grand-mère_ died a year after the _Vel' d'Hiv'_ Roundup, but her flat was exactly as she left it in 1942. It took until December for the lawyers to sort out the estate, but it’s mine now. _Mon frère Henri_ got her place in Annecy, which he always loved, my mother got the art, and my sisters got her jewelry, which is probably worth more than the two flats combined,” he said.

“Blimey, this neighborhood is beautiful, Louis. What’s it called again?”

“ _Le Marais_. It used to be more elegant than it is now. A lot of Jewish families lived here, and as you can imagine, it’s been in some disrepair since _les Boches_ occupied Paris.”

“Is your restaurant near here?”

“No, it is a short walk. It’s on _Île de la Cité_ , near the cathedral. I’ll take you on Tuesday. Tomorrow we rest.”

They walked through the courtyard with its linden trees, and Louis stopped to chat with a lady sitting outside on a bench. She must be the concierge, Peter decided—he’d heard LeBeau mention that there were ladies whose job it was to assist the residents. Their French was too rapid for Peter to grasp, but he got bits of it.

 _My young English friend... POWs together... Courageous…_ (Thanks, mate, you too.) _Come and go from the flat as he pleases... Keep an eye on him… Very young, and a little stupid._

Well, thank you very much, Louis. Still getting laughs at my expense, I see, Peter thought. He was smiling anyway at Louis let them into the flat. Blimey, he thought as he walked down a paneled hallway. Did everyone but the Newkirks live in grandeur?

**XXX**

**May 1946**

Work began on Tuesday, and Peter applied himself diligently to the task LeBeau had set for him: Putting his superb knife skills to work by learning the craft of a vegetable chef, or _legumier_. Louis went off to work five mornings a week, and returned each afternoon to bring Peter back with him for the dinner shift. It was enough work to keep him busy, and not too much to wear down his health.

Peter was smoking again, to Louis’s dismay. He’d stopped for a while when he was being treated for severe respiratory illness; he admitted to Louis that he’d started up again in February. Within days of arriving in Paris, Peter had become part of a small knot of smokers who took their breaks in the alley. Most were men, but a few girls flitted in and out.

Thérèse and Solange from the tobacconists were there without fail whenever the younger men gathered; they giggled and preened and whispered to one another. Then they got sassy enough to dispense cigarettes to the boys they liked—a select group that quickly came to include the handsome but quiet young Englishman who was staying with LeBeau. Wanda and Veronica, two Polish girls from the restaurant’s washing-up staff, also joined the pack as often as they could. Peter and a few of the other young men flirted shamelessly with the girls, who reciprocated cheerfully.

One night, two men were earnestly discussing _Jericho_ , a new film about a joint initiative by the RAF and the French Resistance to free 50 civilians who were being held as hostage by the occupying German Army. LeBeau had actually taken Peter to see the movie two nights earlier, and they’d discussed it in detail, having been privy to the details of Operation Jericho in 1944.

Peter noticed how another man’s eyebrows shot up when he said, “ _J'étais dans la RAF._ ” It turned out that the man, Tomasz, had been a mechanic in the Polish Air Force and had tried to get to England after the collapse of France, but was unsuccessful. He threw his energies into the Resistance instead. Peter couldn’t tell Tomasz what he’d done in the war, but he found his stories about the Resistance fascinating, and started arranging his smoke breaks to coincide with his new friend’s.

Peter, Tomasz and two or three other young men talked and joked endlessly, starting with which girls were prettiest and most likely to make themselves available. It was obviously sport; there would be hell to pay if they got frisky in the alleyway with shop girls, and Peter knew Louis would have his hide if he caught him speaking with disrespect toward any woman. So instead they told ribald stories, compared war injuries, and poked at politics. Within days, the talk had settled on football, and that cemented the friendship. By the middle of May, Peter and Tomasz were inseparable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue on the Metro:  
> Louis jokes he's thinking about fattening Newkirk up with pastries ("Je pensais aux patisseries”) then orders him to repeat it. ("Pastries. Répète après moi.”)  
> Peter repeats the English word.  
> Louis says, "Not that, idiot. Pastries. Repeat, Pierre" (“Pas ça, imbécile,” Louis said. “Patisseries. Répète, Pierre.”)  
> Peter repeats... "Pierre." (He really is annoying.)  
> Then Peter shows off by saying "I"m thinking of pastries too. I'm always hungry." (“Je pensais aux patisseries aussi,” Peter replied. “J'ai toujours faim.”)
> 
> Also, LeBeau says his grandmother died a year after the Vel' d'Hiv' Roundup. This was the roundup of French Jews in July 1942 at the indoor bicycling track known as the Velodrome D'Hiver. A year later, she would have been deported to Auschwitz, where she died. This is not canon, but I'm including this detail in tribute to Robert Clary. In my mind, LeBeau was part Jewish but probably not recognizably Jewish (ie his Catholic father didn't allow his sons to be circumcised) so his German captors couldn't tell.


	9. Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's where it gets sexy, folks. This chapter is somewhat explicit, but things are talked about rather than shown. If that bothers you, please skip, or continue reading on the "other fanfiction platform," where I've posted a slightly sanitized version of events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up right on the heels of the wet bathroom floor incident of chapter 1, in which Peter told Louis his sisters used to pick up after him.

**June 1946**

Louis had grown up in a tidy home, and he kept a tidy home. And while he didn’t mean to nag, for the past month he had found himself constantly on Peter’s back about picking up after himself. His _fr_ _érot_ left a trail of debris wherever he went. Louis hadn’t remembered him doing that at Stalag 13; then again, they didn’t have much in the way of possessions at Stalag 13.

One afternoon, as Louis returned to the house for a late lunch with Peter in between meal shifts, Louis stopped in Peter’s bedroom, saw him lolling on the windowsill with the cat, and reflexively began cleaning up his mess. Peter had mentioned just the day before that his seven older sisters had been in the habit of picking up after him; Louis decided he really needed to have a word with them.

"Whose is this?" Louis asked, examining a pullover he didn't recognize. It had been on the floor, and it was too big to be his or Pierre's.

"Oh, Tomasz must have left that," Peter said, leaping down from the windowsill to reach for the pullover. Then he reminded himself to look calm and folded his arms behind his back. "He was over here this morning. I brought it in here so I’d remember to bring it to him."

"And you threw it on the floor? That was very considerate. Which Thomas is this?" Louis asked as he folded the pullover and laid it on the dresser. "It's not in very good condition," he said with a frown.

"Says the chap who went through World War II in a shredded pullover,” Peter jibed. He perched himself on the desk as Louis tided up all around him. “And it’s Tomasz Krakowski, the Polish lad what mops up at night. I’ll bring it to him tonight.”

“How did you end up with it?” Louis asked idly. “Pierre, come on, it’s your bedroom. Don’t sit. Help. _Mon Dieu_ , your poor wife.”

“I’m not married,” Peter said, sounding confused.

“Someday you will be, and we’re not sending you to her like this,” Louis said. “You’ll destroy the poor girl with overwork.” He took a look at Peter’s crestfallen face, reminded himself he was being harsh, and remembered he’d interrupted. “You were saying something about Tomasz?”

“Oh, yeah, him,” Peter replied. He attempted to make his bed while the cat pounced on ghosts that were apparently lurking under the covers. “We talk all the time when we’re on smoke breaks. He knew of a kickabout football match in the Luxembourg Gardens on Saturday mornings. We met up there and came back here afterwards to clean up, because he don't have a bath in his bedsit. I hope that was alright, Louis. He didn't want to go to work all sweaty. You saw him there when you left, didn't you?" He had to force himself to put the brakes on his explanation. It was too much. He picked up Cosette for a cuddle, then watched as she hopped down and scrambled onto the windowsill to sun herself.

"I did. He was working hard," Louis said. “And you mean ‘doesn’t.’ He _doesn’t_ have a bath,” he corrected. “Not ‘don’t.’ I want you to be able to converse properly with our English-speaking patrons, Pierre.”

"If bathing comes up at any time with our patrons, I shall be sure to employ the proper verb forms, Louis,” Peter said a haughty voice. Then he cracked a big smile. “Blimey, you’re supposed to be helping me with French, not English. Well, I hope you had a good sniff of Tomasz, because he was fresh and clean.” He shifted back to very proper tones: "And he was jolly grateful for the shower, because he _doesn’t_ have a baaaath. He instructed me to tell you."

"He could have told me himself," Louis said with mock sternness.

"At the restaurant? In front of everyone? How _gauche_!" Peter replied, feigning horror.

"You are very generous with my water bill, Pierre," Louis said, thinking back to the previous day’s flood. He was trying to keep a straight face, but he was unable to resist laughing back. "At least you are learning some French. The opposite of _gauche_ is _droite_. Try to remember that."

" _Rive Gauche, Rive Droite_. I've figured THAT much out, Louis," Peter said. Another bullet dodged, he thought as he lit a cigarette to calm himself. “What’s for lunch?”

**XXX**

**Two days later**

“Pierre, the shower is dripping again. You _have_ to turn it all the way off.” As Louis strode down the hallway, he passed the partially open door to Peter’s room. With just a glimpse, he saw Pierre scramble out of bed, naked and visibly aroused, as a companion dropped to the floor on the side of the bed farthest from the door. 

The door snapped shut, but Louis had seen enough. The companion was just as naked as Pierre, but taller and more solidly built. And there was absolutely no doubt that he was male.

Louis went into the bathroom and turned off the water again. Then he stood in the doorway, knocked, and said wearily, “Introduce me to our guest, Pierre.”

A moment passed, and Peter called out. “It’s Tomasz, Louis. From the restaurant.”

Louis shook his head and stood sideways to Peter’s bedroom door. “Both of you get your clothes on and meet me in the living room immediately. And don’t even think of climbing out that window.”

“Louis!” Peter protested. “I can explain. It’s not what you’re th-th-thinking.”

“You don’t have to explain. I have eyes. Now meet me in the living room. If you’re going to be together, we need to talk.”

**XXX**

Tomasz sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands as Peter pulled on his shorts and trousers.

“He’s going to fire me. I can’t afford to lose my job, Piotr,” he muttered into his palms. “Maybe I should go.”

“He said not to,” Peter said as he buttoned up his shirt and brought Tomasz the underwear and trousers he’d dropped in front of the cupboard. “And believe me, he’s a very good tracker. He could follow you silently for miles and you’d never know he was there.” He leaned in and brushed Tomasz’s floppy hair off his face. “I don’t think he’s angry, actually.”

“Not at you. But me…” Tomasz said as he stood to pull on his drawers. “That’s another story. I’m the common rabble.”

“Tommy, he doesn’t think that, trust me,” Peter said, his hand idly stroking Tomasz’s chest. “If he wants to look down on someone, he has me, and he’s never once looked down on me. Come on, get your shoes on and let’s go see him.”

“Where are your shoes?” Tomasz asked as he sat to pull his socks and shoes on.

“I live here. I get to go barefoot,” Peter said with a saucy grin. He sauntered down the hall, and jumped out of the way with a laugh as Tomasz tried to catch him around the waist.

**XXX**

Louis liked open, sunny windows, but as he entered his spacious living room with its floor-to-ceiling panes, he immediately drew all the curtains shut. Though it was midday, it was very sunny and warm outside, and no one passing by would think anything of it, not even his concierge, Madame Faucher. She’d know he was cooling the room down. And he was, in more ways than one.

He stood, examining a bottle of wine, as he waited for the boys. Burgundy was best for serious discussions, and this certainly qualified.

He wasn’t exactly surprised to discover Pierre and Tomasz in bed together; he’d had the sense that Peter was hiding something. No, he was disappointed. Not disappointed that they were together; who was he to judge? But he was disappointed that Pierre had not confided in him and had not trusted him. Because Pierre had trusted him with everything else, and he had reciprocated.

He was certain that he know his _fr_ _érot_ better than anyone alive. Better than Mavis, who knew everything about Pierre the boy, but hadn’t really seen him grow into a man. Better even than Colonel Hogan, who was Pierre’s father in every sense that mattered, because the Pierre who was born in London in 1925 was reborn in Stalag 13 in 1942.

As much as they knew, Louis knew more. He knew that Pierre had lived his life with enormous hurt and shame; and he didn’t want that for him. Not at all, and definitely not in their relationship with one another. He wanted honesty and openness.

He wanted Pierre to trust him, and as far as he was concerned, there was nothing to hide. He’d seen for himself back in Stalag 13 that homosexual men found Pierre attractive, and he knew from experience that such things didn’t happen accidentally. He’d seen little glimmers that the interest might go both ways. Maybe. Pierre was a born flirt, and he didn’t seem to realize sometimes that he was flirting with a man.

And Pierre had fallen hard for several girls—particularly Anja, his first lover. Louis had assumed that his professed and demonstrated interest in females was stronger than any tug he might have felt toward men. But Louis was no fool. Men didn’t enter lightly into liaisons with other men. The social risks were too high. His own brother was homosexual; he knew exactly how difficult life had been for Henri. Pierre was young; perhaps it was a passing phase. But he wouldn’t bet on it.

**XXX**

“Sit, boys,” Louis said as he waved them to a sofa in the living room. They sat side by side, and he handed each a glass of wine. “Some discussions require fortitude,” he said with a shrug, pulling a chair up to sit facing them.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Monsieur LeBeau, I want you to know I got carried away and…”

“Tomasz, stop. I am not angry. I am concerned.” He turned to Peter. “Pierre, how old are you?”

“What? You know how old I am, Louis.”

“Humor me and say it, _s’il vous plait._ ”

“I’m twenty,” Peter said irritably. “Twenty-one in December.”

“Yes. December 22 is six months away. And you, Tomasz?”

“Ummm, I’m turning twenty-six next month,” he replied.

“And what is the age of consent in France?” Louis asked.

“Fifteen,” Peter said defiantly.

“Is it?” Louis replied.

“That’s what Colonel Hogan told me. He said I have to stay away from any girls younger than fifteen,” Peter said. “Which I wouldn’t have trouble doing, by the way.”

“Apparently not,” Louis said. “But did he tell you the age of consent for homosexual relations?”

Peter was silent, and he was tugging on the tails of his shirt, as Louis had seen him do many times before. His cheeks were turning pink with embarrassment, and Louis knew at once that it was the rarely spoken word that brought on that reaction. He was looking away, ashamed. Shaming him was not Louis’s goal, but Pierre was Pierre.

“The age of consent for homosexual relations is twenty-one, Pierre,” he said softly. “You are a minor. Tomasz could go to prison for six months to three years simply for having sex with you.” He turned to Tomasz. “Until he is 21, this is very risky, Tomasz.”

“Are you going to turn us in?” Tomasz said fearfully. “Please, Monsieur LeBeau, I’ll do anything you ask… I need my job…”

“Tomasz, stop. Of course I won’t turn you in, and your job is safe. But you are older than he is, and that makes you responsible. You need to understand the risks you are taking.”

“He’ll be 21 soon.”

“The law doesn’t care about ‘soon.’ You boys need to be careful. Pierre…”

“Bloody hell, Louis,” Peter snapped. “I waited and waited to be eighteen so I could put my bleeding life on the line for England. Now I have to wait again?” He licked his lips and looked at his friend. “I mean, we’re j-j-j-just … ex, experimenting, right Tommy? J-j-j-just trying something fffforbidden to see what all the ffffffuss is about.”

“That’s right,” Tomasz agreed eagerly. “We’re not really…”

“No. Oh, no, no, that’s not what we are at all. Blimey, Louis, is that what you were thinking? That we’re actually, you know, queer? How do you say it in Polish, Tommy?”

“ _Ciotas_ ,” Tomasz laughed. “ _Dziwny_. No, of course not.”

Louis closed his eyes and heaved out a sigh. “You don’t have to hide from me or from yourselves. And I don’t like it when people lie to me. Whether you are experimenting or falling in love isn’t the issue. This issue is that if you are seen together—through a window or a doorway, doing what you were just doing… Tomasz, you are a foreigner on a visa here in France. You know legal trouble will make it hard for you to stay.”

Tomasz was nodding. He understood.

“Alright, we’ll, we’ll, we’ll have to stop.” Peter looked downcast. “I don’t want Tommy to get in trouble.”

“And do it somewhere else where the risks are even higher? No. You are missing the point!” Louis shouted. He calmed himself just as quickly. “Here is fine. But you must close the windows and doors. You must not be seen kissing and holding hands. You must be discreet while you ... experiment.”

“It’s alright with you, then?” Peter said hopefully.

“Yes, but you must also be considerate. I live here too. What is your place like, Tomasz?”

“I have a small bedsit and a nosy landlady,” he replied.

“Then there can be no sex there, ever—do you hear me? I am very serious. It’s too risky. And we have a nosy concierge, so you need to be scrupulously polite and discreet in front of her,” Louis said firmly. He sighed, and then continued.

“Boys, the culture of war is not far behind us. People have had years of being rewarded for turning on one another. Betrayal can come from those we hardly know. France has a tolerant culture toward homosexuality, but involving minors… no. And there are many people—conservative people, devout Catholics—who don’t _want_ to tolerate what you are doing, who probably prefer the way the Nazis treated homosexuals, by locking them up. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Peter looked at Louis with a pained expression and nodded without making a sound. Tomasz simply stared at his clenched hands.

Louis looked at the two boys, who were ashamed and embarrassed, awkwardly holding wine glasses in their hands. “Drink up,” he said. “To authenticity,” he added, reaching over to clink glasses first with Peter, then with Tomasz. Peter smiled back at him weakly, while Tomasz continued to look terrified. “Stop looking so worried, Tomasz,” he said. “If you are careful, everything will be all right.”

Peter, sitting in one corner of the sofa, reached his hand out to Tomasz, who was in the other corner, and nodded without saying a word. Tomasz shifted closer to him and they sat holding hands quietly.

Louis looked at them and smiled. He’d seen Pierre in an _amourette de jeunesse_ before, and he realized he was seeing it again. Boy or girl, Tomasz or Anja, it didn’t matter; it was gratifying to see him opening his heart.

Pierre was of an average height and slim but sturdy, with medium brown hair with golden streaks, and stunning green eyes that captivated everyone—man, woman and child. Tomasz was probably eight or ten centimeters taller, and broad chested and well-muscled like an athlete, with darker hair and eyes. They both still had some of the softness of youth in their faces, and both were on their way to being very handsome indeed. The little looks they exchanged were adorable. The little squeezes of their hands showed they were clearly enamored of one another, two fine, frisky boys in their prime.

“ _Vous_ _êtes tr_ _ès mignons ensemble_ ,” Louis said softly. Both boys blushed instantly, but they looked at each other and smiled.

He finished his drink, then clapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “All right. I am heading back to the restaurant in an hour, and Pierre, you will need to come with me. We’ll see you there later tonight, Tomasz.” He walked to the doorway. “I’ll leave you two boys alone to say goodbye.”

**XXX**

“I told you he wasn’t angry,” Peter said as Louis left the room. He scooted closer to Tomasz and leaned his head on his shoulder. “He likes you.”

“He _loves_ you,” Tomasz said. “He wants only the best for you. That is the definition of love.” He kissed Peter’s neck.

“Don’t start that again,” Peter replied, shivering. “You’re going to get me all worked up.”

“Oh yes, it’s so easy to get you excited,” Tomasz whispered in his ear, giving the earlobe a little suckle. But he pulled back. This definitely wasn’t the time or place for another round of lovemaking.

As Peter stood, a bulge was forming in his trousers, which he made no attempt to hide from Tomasz. He stood directly in front of Tomasz, who remained seated, and reached an arm to his shoulder. Tomasz scooted to the edge of the sofa and Peter leaned forward with both his arms around his boyfriend’s shoulders as Tomasz held him around the waist and caressed him through his clothes.

Peter sighed at the warm sensation of arousal, but Louis’s words echoed: “ _I live here too._ ” “Alright, that’s enough,” Peter suddenly said, swatting a hand away from his crotch. “If you keep this up, I’m going to have let you have your way with me right here on the floor,” he added, in a seductive tone.

“You’re the one keeping it up,” Tomasz observed, delivering one last, tender stroke. But he stood and wrapped his arms around Peter. “Do you want to go to a film this weekend? Or go to the Louvre?”

“Football on Saturday morning, and then why don’t we go to _Bois de Boulogne_ and rent a row boat?”

“All the way across the city, Piotr? Will we make it back for work?” Tomasz asked.

“Of course we will. And we won’t see anyone we know, and I can make my arms stronger, like yours,” Peter said with a little growl. He stood on tiptoe and kissed Tomasz on the lips. “Come on, time for you to go. I need a shower after the afternoon we had,” he said as he led him to the door.

“Stop teasing me with images of you naked in the shower,” Tomasz said. In the foyer, he kissed Peter passionately on the mouth, grinding hips together, then separated. “See you tonight at work,” he said, running his hands over Peter’s forearms.

“Yeah. See you there, mate,” Peter replied, breathing hard as he let go. He pulled open the door and watched affectionately as Tomasz descended the stairs, then pulled out his cigarettes, lit up, and wandered to his room, throbbing as he walked. If he got in the shower now and soaped up fast, he’d have just enough time to finish what Tomasz had started, he decided. Then off to work with Louis.


	10. Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, while not depicting any explicit sex scenes, contains a frank discussion of a sex act that Peter is worried about.
> 
> I would really appreciate comments on the story itself. I've gotten comments about how I should write events occurring in this era, but not a whole lot about the story itself (except from FicFanFun, thank you Francesca, but as she knows, we already talk constantly!)
> 
> It really helps to know what people's reactions are. What makes you want to keep reading? Are there questions you have? What's working, what's not. Are parts of it dragging? Are there elements that don't make sense? That kind of thing. I'm not begging for praise. I'm asking for reactions.
> 
> Many authors say "Oh, I only write for me! As long as I'm happy, that's all that counts!" Well, sorry, that always sounds ridiculous to me. I am definitely aware of writing for an audience, and that's why reactions are helpful. Otherwise, why would I publish it at all? I have actually found it very helpful when readers call concerns to my attention and I will make course-corrections if I need to.

Peter emerged from his shower, clean and relieved, and quickly got dressed to leave for work. He combed his wet hair back with his fingers, feeling glad he’d cut it short for the summer; it would be dry in no time.

As he put on his socks and shoes, he reflected on the afternoon. He knew he’d been careless, and he scolded himself for letting his guard down. Louis seemed to be accepting of what he had witnessed, but that didn’t mean Peter was happy about being discovered. He was still working things out in his head.

Peter had flirted with girls all his life. It was second-nature to him. He was the doted-upon little brother of seven older sisters, all of whom treated him like a prince, even if they were paupers. He had expressive eyes that spoke when he couldn’t, and he was good looking enough to constantly attract attention. Girls liked him, and he liked them back. He’d loved Anja and at some level he always would.

It was only recently that he had realized how much he enjoyed flirting with boys.

He checked his watch, sat on the windowsill, and lit a cigarette. Louis would be ready in ten minutes. As he smoked, he thought back to the first time he really noticed Tomasz, just four weeks earlier.

It was Peter’s fourth day on the job, and things had started casually enough. A group of lads, clustered in an alley, were chatting about this and that, including girls. Mostly girls, in fact. They were all admiring Wanda, a particularly voluptuous girl who had joined the washing-up staff. All the young men agreed she was very pretty. She was also, Tomasz added, “Very Catholic.” He leaned in toward Peter’s ear. “No sense of adventure,” he whispered, choosing him out of everyone.

“What about French girls?” Peter asked as the other boys ogled Wanda and discussed her merits in more detail. He could feel himself flushing as soon as the question was out. Why had he asked that? He knew Louis would be disappointed to hear him discussing females—especially French ones—as objects.

Tomasz answered him. “They will like you because you’re English. But not me. They look down on Polish. But it’s alright. I manage.” Then he winked at Peter and went off to join some of the Polish men in conversation.

Peter remembered the little jump he felt inside at that wink. As Tomasz walked off and the other boys inched over to chat up Wanda, the girls from the tobacco shop skipped up to Peter, chattering teasingly in French that was a little too rapid for him to grasp. They were so pretty, yet his eyes lingered on Tomasz. And when Tomasz looked over his shoulder to gaze back, there was a sly smile on his lips, as if he knew something Peter didn't.

The girls were talking a mile a minute to Peter as he puffed on his cigarette, and he nodded and smiled warmly at them, but his head was swimming. Garrett at Stalag 13 had looked at him the way Tomasz just had. So had Martin, from the Hitler Youth. So had those German soldiers on the road to the Belgian coast.

And so had Tim, General Bailey’s son, at that tea dance in February, in the dark corner at the end of the corridor. He'd looked, and then some. The kiss they shared, the culmination of weeks of horsing around and sharing that look, had made a light bulb go off in Peter’s brain. Oh, that was nice, he thought. It was like some lads had a secret they wanted to let him in on, but he’d been terribly slow to pick up the hints.

Soon, Tim was back at Oxford, so things had gone no further. But Tim had taken a place in Peter's fantasies, next to Anja and Martin. That thought was enough to make Peter stick a hand in his pocket and give in briefly to the stirrings he felt. He gave himself a few small strokes before taming himself with a pinch. The moment of arousal came and went so quickly that he felt sure the girls hadn't noticed. He didn't realize Tomasz had.

**XXX**

“Come on, Pierre, it’s a beautiful afternoon to walk to the restaurant.” The cheerful words and the familiar face poking into the room broke his concentration. He got up and pulled the window shut, latching it to make sure Cosette didn’t escape. Then he smiled at Louis and followed him out.

It was four o’clock as they set out, and dinner service would begin in two and a half hours and run until eleven. Peter stopped to light another cigarette as they reached the bottom of the stairs, then walked in stride with Louis.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asked as they rounded a corner.

“Say what?” Louis asked. He stopped and looked at Peter in genuine surprise. “Of course not, Pierre,” he said. “We’ve said what we need to say.”

“You’re not disappointed?” Peter said as they stopped to wait for a crossing light to turn to green.

Louis took his arm and pulled him closer. “Disappointed? Yes, of course I’m a bit disappointed.”

Peter’s head was down. He was afraid of this.

Louis saw it and felt his heart go mushy. His poor boy, always hurting. “But not the way you think, Pierre. I don’t mind about you and Tomasz. But you should have told me. We shouldn’t have secrets. You were trying to deceive me.”

“I w-w-wwwasn’t, Louis. I was j-j-j-just, I was…”

Louis looked at him sympathetically. “You were confused. Yes, I see that. But that’s why you must come to me. Always talk to me, Pierre. You know I will always be your friend. Your grand frère. Nothing can change that.”

“Nothing? Because this… well, a lot of people, well…”

“They don’t approve. Believe me, I know, and I don’t care,” Louis said. “You and Tomasz need to be discreet, that is all. And be good to one another.”

Peter nodded, but he was still worried. “Are you going to say anything to him?” he asked anxiously.

“Only if I catch him doing a bad job. Or a good job,” Louis replied with a smile. “Stop fretting. If you think you’re the only homosexuals I know, you are sadly mistaken.”

“Do you have say that?” Peter said sharply.

Louis looked at him with concern. Shame thrives on hiding, he thought. Being locked away, never faced. But it was a delicate balance with Pierre, always. And words had always terrified him.

“Chut, chut,” he said softly. “The only words we need right now are these: I still love you, mon frérot. Nothing has changed.”

“Bloody right it hasn’t,” Peter muttered. “I’m still me.” At least, he was pretty sure he was.

**XXX**

It was after one in the morning when they returned home, and they quietly went their own ways. Louis took a long shower; Peter found Cosette and teased her with a string, laughing at her antics, until she was worn out. He gathered her up and wandered to his bedroom. As Louis emerged from his shower, he saw him through the partially open door, clad in pajama bottoms but no shirt. He smiled, vaguely missing the sight of him in a nightshirt, but it was 1946. In this day and age, not even Englishmen dressed that way for bed if they had a choice, which Peter finally did.

Louis hovered at the door. In more than five years of friendship, he'd had more "little talks" with Pierre than he could count. He’d explained wet dreams and menstrual cycles. He’d walked him through the mechanics of his first kiss and his first condom. He’d demystified the finer points of giving sexual pleasure to a woman. He had no concern about being candid, because he was confident in his knowledge of all these things.

And yet, right now, he was feeling a little out of his depth. He was going to have to swim anyway.

As he did every night, he came into Pierre’s room, sat on the edge of the bed, and rested a hand on the blanket that was covering his stomach. The usual question—“What was the best thing that happened to you today?”—seemed wildly ill-suited to the moment, but he didn’t have an alternative. So he went with the tried and true.

Peter, lying with his head on a puffy white pillow, stared back at Louis, genuinely relieved by the familiar question.

“I let you see the truth,” he said, blinking and tipping his head to the side as he searched Louis’s eyes. He bit his lip and waited for a response.

“Which is what, Pierre?” Louis replied.

“That I like boys. Boys, too, I mean. Because I st-st-still like girls, I really do. I d-d-don’t have to decide… y-y-yet. But…” he licked his lips as he searched for the words and let out an excited breath. “I really like boys. I, I, I like Tommy.”

“Have there been other boys?” Louis asked softly. Pierre shrugged, so Louis added in a teasing voice, “Little crushes?”

Peter smiled shyly and looked up through his long eyelashes. “Y-y-yes, crushes. B-b-but not like this. Just one or two boys, and a k-k-kiss or two, and some… um… t-touching. This is, this is, this is… mmmore.”

“Yes, I saw that,” Louis said, winking.

“Shut up,” Peter replied, punching him in the chest.

Louis made a show of rubbing the spot where he’d been struck, then laid his hand back on Peter. “Do you mind if we talk about certain acts of love, Pierre?"

For just a moment, Peter considered protesting the intrusive question, but he trusted Louis completely. He could ask or tell him anything; he always had. And if Louis was asking, he had a purpose. So he nodded.

“I’m asking for a reason, Pierre," Louis said. “Perhaps you’ve already thought of this, but you need to be careful. You will still need condoms for certain things. So be sure to keep some in your drawer, all right?”

Peter’s look of astonishment told Louis everything he needed to know, and for a moment he chastised himself for dancing around what he needed to say. “Some activities come later with homosexual relations,” Louis said kindly. “I am talking about _la sodo_ , do you understand this word?”

Peter nodded very slightly. “Buggery,” he whispered.

“Ah, yes, you British and your horrible words. Pierre, it can happen if both partners want it and prepare for it. The condom is for health reasons, and you need a good lubricant.” He looked at Peter’s expression and then asked softly, “Would you like me to buy one for you?”

Peter shrugged as he bit his lip and looked worried, a look that Louis mistook for naïveté. What Peter couldn’t bring himself to say was what he was thinking. He wanted to be ready, but he was astonished that anyone would want it, because he already knew from experience exactly how agonizing it felt when you didn’t want it. A particularly brutal Gestapo interrogator had seen to that. Not even Louis knew; Peter’s shame was too great.

“Tomasz wants to do it. I, I, I’m not sure. It seems so fffffinal,” Peter said. He was relieved now that he had decided to talk to Louis, because this was proving impossibly hard to discuss with Tomasz.

“Final how?” Louis asked.

“That it’s the th-th-th-thing that makes you actually qu-qu-queer. Because if you do that, if you _wwwwant_ him to do that t-to you, th-there’s no d-doubt,” Peter said.

Louis noticed the increase in stammering and, taking it for embarrassment, he couldn’t suppress a smile. “Who is making up these rules, Pierre?” he said. Peter didn’t laugh; Louis could see he was uncomfortable with the topic.

“Look,” Louis said seriously. “It's the same with any lover, boy or girl. Don’t do anything you aren’t ready to do, and don’t let anyone pressure you before you are prepared. You may eventually want to try this, and you may never want it. And the same goes for you—you must always be respectful of your lover and not rush him. Do you understand?”

Peter nodded, his eyes locked with Louis’s.

“Good,” Louis continued. “If you try anything together and you don’t like it, then stop. Talk to him about what you do and don’t enjoy. But also don’t worry about labeling yourself. Just as you said, you like boys. You like girls. You don’t have to decide right now. Who you make love with doesn’t determine who or what you are. Just don’t be afraid to be who you are, Pierre.”

Peter looked up at him intently. He was constantly both startled by and grateful for the frankness with which Louis talked with him about what he still thought of as s-e-x. They’d talked about different aspects of sex since they met when Peter was fifteen, though Louis and everyone else thought he was older and experienced. He’d been seventeen the first time Louis sat him down to figure out what he actually knew—which was shockingly little in Louis's eyes. How Louis managed to be both delicate and specific, gentlemanly and worldly, was a constant source of amazement to Peter. He wanted to be just like him in so many ways, so confident and assured about something that Peter, like most people, loved doing but hated discussing.

“Alright,” Peter finally said, almost breathlessly. “Louis, you’re not disgusted?” He took Louis’ hand and idly explored his fingers.

“Of course not. You already know this, Pierre. We have spoken about homosexuality before now. We both know men have been interested in you; now you are interested in them. Pierre, love is beautiful, wherever we find it. As long as Tomasz is good to you and not making you do things you’re not ready for…”

“He’s not,” Peter interrupted, shaking his head adamantly. “He wouldn’t. He’s not like that.”

“…Well, then it’s no one’s business but the two people who are making love. But Pierre, make sure you remember to love. Even if it’s not forever, you can still begin and end with love.”

“So I d-don’t have to do, you know, _that_ if I don’t wwwwant to?” Peter asked.

“No, you do not. You can say you’re not ready. Don’t let anyone force you,” Louis said gently. Peter bit his lip, struggling to suppress his embarrassment and shame, but hungry for guidance. The trouble was, he had already let someone force him. And though he’d only known Tomasz for a few weeks, the memory of that searing pain in a German cell was coming between them.

He laid there looking pensive for a moment, still playing with Louis’s fingers. Finally, he spoke up. “You’re not going to tell the Gov, are you?” Peter asked.

“Why would you even ask that? You know I wouldn’t speak out of turn,” Louis said, stroking Peter’s cheek. “That’s something _you_ will do when you’re ready. Alright? And you do not have to tell every intimate detail of your life. You may want some things to remain private.”

Peter nodded.

Louis smiled gently at him. “Go to sleep, Pierre.” He leaned down to kiss him goodnight, as he had done every night since he arrived in Paris, this young brother whom he loved so much. Only this time, Pierre wrapped his arms around Louis’ neck and held on tight, let out a shaky breath, then kissed him back on both cheeks.

Louis pulled back, pleasantly surprised by the unexpected display of affection, and smoothed Pierre’s hair off his forehead. “See? You are learning to speak French,” he said. “Good night, _fr_ _érot. Fais dodo et fais de beaux r_ _êves_.”

Peter yawned. “ _Bonsoir, mon pote. Je t’aime tellement_.”

“You mean _‘bonne nuit’_ , _frérot,_ ” Louis corrected gently as he tucked the covers around his Pierre and placed an extra kiss on his forehead. “ _Je t’aime de tout mon Coeur._ Remember that nothing will ever change that, Pierre.”

“I know that,” Peter said sleepily as Louis switched off the light. Tired from a day's honest labor, Peter's hands were under the blanket, and his thoughts were all of Tomasz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The exchange at the end:  
> “Good night, little brother. Go to sleep and sweet dreams.  
> “Good evening, mate. I love you so much.”  
> “You mean ‘good night,’ little brother. I love you with my whole heart."


	11. Le Grande Frère

**June 1946**

The next day at work, Louis phoned his brother. They were in the same city again at last, but at opposite corners, and far too many weeks had passed between visits.

By the time Louis finally came home for good in August 1945, the family had agreed he would take over his late uncle’s restaurant on the Île de la Cité and his grandmother’s apartment nearby in Le Marais. For months, his days were so busy that he hardly ventured beyond the 4th arrondissement.

Henri, five years older than his brother, had been in Paris all along. Henri owned an airy flat in Montparnasse, and shuttled each day between there and his medical practice in the Champs-Élysées. “A doctor by day and a Bohemian by night” was how Louis jokingly described him, and he was right. Henri and his clarinet haunted the city’s jazz clubs every chance he could get.

Henri’s profession, more than his age, had kept him out of the service; he was needed at home. Maman LeBeau was grateful; one son in danger, and then in a prisoner of war camp, was as much heartache as she could bear. Henri’s act of patriotic defiance was to provide free medical care to the Jews, Gypsies and other “undesirables” who had lived in the shadows of Parisian life since the Roundup, and to aid the French Resistance whenever they needed a doctor.

He could hear the urgency in Louis’s voice over the phone. “Can you get away to the restaurant for lunch? Dinner? Anything?” Louis asked. “I haven’t seen you since we all celebrated your birthday in April.”

“Forty years old,” Henri said with a groan. “Obviously, the reason you haven’t seen me is because I’m too infirm now to get around,” he teased. “Of course, _mon fr_ _érot_ , I must find time to see you. Are you inviting only me, or am I to bring Jean-Claude?”

“You alone, or both of you—I’m always happy to see him,” Louis replied. “But do let him know I have something to discuss with you.” Jean-Claude had been at Henri’s side for a decade, a pair of _célibataires endurci_ – hardened bachelors. They maintained separate apartments in Paris, but were otherwise devoted to one another. Jean-Claude, an architect, was helping Henri restore Grand-Mère’s run-down farmhouse chalet in the Alps.

“Is it about the estate again?” Henri sighed. “Will it ever be settled?” Recovering the family’s assets had been a headache since liberation, although it was proving to be worth the effort.

“Actually, I should have said ‘someone.’ Pierre, my friend from the war.”

“You are very fond of that boy, Louis,” Henri laughed. “If I didn’t know you better, I would say you were...”

They’d sparred over this point, brother to brother, for years. Henri actually had no doubts about Louis’s obvious affection for women, but as the older brother he felt it his sworn duty to harass his younger sibling anytime he mentioned a close male friend.

“That’s just it, Henri. It seems he is very fond of one particular boy. I need help guiding them both,” Louis said. “They both work for me, and Pierre is still only twenty.”

Henri let out a whistle. “Did you know this about Pierre?” Henri said, suddenly serious.

“No, it’s a new interest. I had questions about him, but I’d always pushed them aside. He’s always been a skirt-chaser.”

“Hmm. Some men go both ways; some simply need time to settle into themselves,” Henri said thoughtfully. “Are we meeting with him?”

“You’ll meet him, but this is just between us—and of course, Jean-Claude if you wish to include him,” Louis said. “I know he’ll have thoughts.”

“No, no,” Henri answered. “For Pierre’s privacy, of course it should be just the two of us. Could we dine late tonight? Around 10 o’clock?”

“Perfect. In the family dining room on the second floor,” Louis replied. The small suite of five rooms where his paternal grandparents had once lived had been unoccupied for years, but it was still properly equipped and served as a guest quarters and a place for family rendezvous.

**XXX**

Peter was wiping his hands on the white apron that was tied around his waist over his checked kitchen trousers as he poked his head into the family dining room above the restaurant. There was no mistaking it, he thought as he smiled at the sight of two brothers eating side-by-side, gesturing at one another with forks. Henri’s nose was longer and his face narrower, but the resemblance was strong.

 _Bloody hell, there are two of him_. _Twice the LeBeaus to boss me around_ , Peter thought as he stepped into the room with all the confidence he could muster.

“Ah, here is my _mon pote_ ,” Louis said affectionately, getting to his feet as Peter entered the dining room above the restaurant. “Pierre, come meet Henri.”

“Docteur LeBeau, I’ve heard a great deal about you,” Peter said in smooth French. He stepped up to Henri and bowed slightly at the waist. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet.”

Henri, rising to his feet, stood perhaps two inches taller than his brother; Peter towered over them both. Henri clamped his left hand on Peter’s right arm and shook his hand heartily with the right. “Please, you are practically family. Call me Henri.”

“Henri, then,” Peter said, then bit his lip and stood there awkwardly. Addressing adults by their first names was still novel to him. Plus, he was used to a world where everyone had a rank, and almost every rank was higher than his own.

“Sit, sit, Pierre,” Louis said. “Pascal knows you’re here, right?”

“He does,” Peter replied.

“Pascal!” Henri said with an exaggerated splutter. “You’re a cruel man, Louis. He’s a task master.” He addressed Peter in the next breath. “He gave up on me after he attempted to teach me to _chiffonade_ basil and I pulverized it instead. He sent me off to be a dishwasher.”

“You were always hopeless,” Louis replied. “Pierre, on the other hand, is brilliant with a knife. You should see his _fine brunoise_.” He inspected his consommé and fished out several tiny cubes of carrot. “Here, look. Tiny and uniform.”

Henri shuddered. “Knives, ugh.” Then he leaned in for a look at the consommé Louis was holding out. “Nice work,” he added.

“Oui, knives, ugh,” Louis imitated. He turned to Peter. “This is why Henri is a doctor and not a surgeon. He’s afraid of knives.”

“Blades in general, actually. That time you practically cut a finger off on the mandoline did it for me,” Henri said, attempting to sound bitter while stifling a laugh. “I seem to remember you were queasy at the sight of blood too, after that.” He turned to Pierre. “He was ten. He was curious, but he knew better than to try something he hadn’t been trained for. Pascal mopped up the blood and lectured me to keep a closer eye on the little mischief maker while Papa took him to get stitches.” He stopped, smiled, and turned to Louis.

“I’m speaking much too fast for him, _n’est-ce pas_?” Henri asked.

“Hard to tell,” Louis said seriously, stroking his chin as he contemplated Peter’s overwhelmed expression. “I’ve always maintained he understands more than he lets on.” He switched to English. “How much of that did you get, Pierre?”

“All of it,” Peter replied, “but I’m still trying to work out what you were doing with a mandolin in the kitchen, and how you managed to cut yourself on it. A little guitar, just your size—where’s the danger in that?”

Louis and Henri laughed, and once Louis explained that a mandoline was an ultra-sharp tool for slicing, Peter joined in, shaking his head at the misunderstanding. Louis poured him some wine and pushed some of his chicken and potatoes in front of him. “Eat,” he commanded.

They chatted amiably for fifteen minutes. Henri quizzed Peter on what he’d been up to in Paris and what he liked so far.

“It’s good to see Louis, of course, and it’s good to be back at work,” Peter replied. “It’s been more than a year since I’ve done anything productive.” He bit his lip, fighting back his feelings about what he’d just said.

“Is it difficult to get a job in London?” Henri said.

“That, and Colonel Hogan didn’t want me to take a job j-just yet,” Peter said. “He thought I needed more time.” He shrugged. “I thought I ought to listen to him after all he’d done for me.”

“There was a good reason for not working, Pierre,” Louis said quietly. “You needed to regain your health.” He turned to Henri. “The Stalag was a very bad place the last few months, and everyone was sick. Some more than others.” He laid a hand on Peter’s shoulder and rubbed.

Peter was lighting a cigarette as he added, “I had pneumonia and pleurisy at the end. I couldn’t catch my breath to climb a flight of stairs until a few months ago.” He looked embarrassed by the admission of weakness.

“He was in hospital until August,” Louis added. “And even after that, it took quite a while…”

“Leave off, Louis, it wasn’t so bad,” Peter said. His voice was pleading rather than irritable.

“It was very bad, Pierre,” Louis said firmly. He turned to his brother. “In addition to having damaged lungs and asthma because of all the infections, he also has a very hard head.”

“Imagine a friend of yours being that way,” Henri said dryly. He turned back to Peter. “Is your health better now?” he said, with evident concern.

“Much better, thank you,” Peter said. “My chest only bothers me if I get a cold, and I haven’t been ill at all since January.”

“That’s good,” Henri said. “You know, there’s disagreement as to whether cigarettes help with respiration. There is some indication menthol can aid breathing. But my observation is that smoking seems to do more harm than good.” He stopped before acknowledging, “That doesn’t mean quitting is easy. But I imagine you know it might be prudent to cut down.”

“I know. Working has helped with that, actually. I smoke less when I’m in the kitchen,” Peter said. “It was the same when I was in a tailor’s shop. You can’t smoke indoors when you’re working with fabrics,” he said. “Or food,” he added with a nod to Louis.

“That’s good. Well, you’ve obviously done something to help yourself get better. What was it?”

Peter looked surprised at the question. Had he really done something to help himself? “After I got out of hospital, you mean?” he asked.

Henri nodded.

Peter pursed his lips and thought. “Well, I started going to the Westminster Public Baths every day for a swim,” he said. “And kicking my football about. Sometimes we go out to the country at weekends, Colonel Hogan and me. I mean, General; I’ll never get used to that. Anyhow, the fresh air helps my breathing.”

“Exercise is very important, and swimming is especially good for keeping lungs healthy,” Henri said, nodding his head. “Have you been swimming here in Paris?”

“No, I d-d-didn’t know where to go,” Peter said.

“I didn’t know you swam, Peter,” Louis said. “ _La Piscine Pontoise_ is a short walk away. It’s on the _Rive Gauche_ , but very close to the restaurant. We can go anytime. Or you could ask Tomasz.”

Peter looked down shyly at the mention of the name. “I suppose I could ask him,” he said.

**XXX**

“He’s a very pleasant young man,” Henri said. “He wants to be a chef?”

Louis sputtered on his wine. “Pierre? No! He barely understands food. He’s English—he thinks fish and chips is a delicacy. No, it’s just a summer job for him.”

“Something to keep him busy, then?” Henri asked.

“Not exactly—it’s a way for him to be useful. He needs to feel useful,” Louis replied. Then he added passionately, “Henri, he is the younger brother I never had. He would do anything for me, and I for him. He is working hard mainly to thank me for having him here, to earn his keep, you know? Mind, you, he is extremely talented with a knife, as I knew he would be—I’ve seen him… well, never mind that. He knows all the classic cuts now, and his decorative work is superb. If he had any real interest in gastronomy, he could be an _entremetier_ , _p_ _âtissier_ , _garde-manger_ —any of the beautiful crafts.”

“You’re very fond of him,” Henri said with a warm smile. “And very impressed with him. But something’s troubling you.”

“He never keeps secrets from me, Henri,” Louis said. “We talked about everything. For a time he had a young lady when we were in the Stalag—and no, I can’t explain to you how this came about, but trust me, it did. He was completely infatuated and they were adorable together. And I was the one who helped him understand everything. _Everything_ ,” he emphasized.

“He was open with you about a girl, but he’s being secretive about a boy? Well, that’s not terribly surprising,” Henri said. “Everything in his upbringing is telling him these feelings are normal and wonderful when they land on a girl, but all wrong when they are focused on a boy.”

“But he’s acting on his feelings, so how wrong could he think they are?” Louis said. Henri’s eyebrow shot up, and Louis clarified, “Yes, I am certain of it, and we have the laundry bills to prove it. They are lovers.”

“He thinks it feels good, which it certainly does, whether it’s with a boy or a girl,” Henri said with a shrug. “But he’s not ready to have his interests known. Did you see how he looked down when you mentioned the young man’s name? He was blushing like a maiden.”

“Yes, I saw that,” Louis replied. “He’s easily embarrassed. Alright, then, what do I do for him?”

“He is how old?” Henri asked.

“Still twenty, until December. And Tomasz is twenty-five.”

“Well, then you must have a stern talk with them about maintaining privacy. Men go to jail for indecent acts with minors.”

“I’ve had that conversation with them. And believe me, I remember,” Louis said.

“Poor Germain,” Henri said, shaking his head. “His life ruined at the age of thirty-two. Of course, the boy was only eighteen. He should have been more restrained, but he was always ruled by his passions.” Germain was Henri’s lover for a time when they were both medical students. Two years before the war, he had been convicted of homosexual acts with a minor and although his prison sentence was light, he was stripped of his medical license. He eventually found work performing blood and urine tests in a laboratory.

“What became of him during the war?” Louis asked, realizing he hadn’t thought of Germain in some time. He had attended the trial with Henri, showing support for an old friend and hoping against hope for justice, but had lost track after that.

“Jewish _and_ a homosexual? Auschwitz,” Henri said. “He was doomed.” He shook his head and his shoulders suddenly looked heavy with sorrow. “Many people—French people—were glad to see him marched away with the other ‘ _p_ _éd_ _és sales_ ,’” he added angrily. “Thank goodness there is no legal consequence for consenting adults, but that does not mean there is no issue at all. Disapproval is a powerful weapon.” He and Jean-Claude did not live together in Paris for a reason; their professions demanded a show of respectability.

“Here in France the laws are progressive, and still Germain suffered,” Henri said quietly. “Pierre lives in England, where the laws are vicious.”

Louis looked distressed. “You haven’t answered my question, Henri. What can I do for him?”

“Short of never sending him back to England? Just listen and ask questions. Let him talk to you. And teach him to be parsimonious with his trust, including with lovers. He really can’t let many people know,” Henri said.

“I won’t need to teach him that,” Louis said glumly. “He is very slow to trust.”

  
  



	12. Au Petit Bonheur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title means "Happy go lucky."

It was 8 o’clock in the morning, and although Peter didn’t need to leave for work for several hours, the smell of coffee lured him from his bed and into the kitchen. There he found Louis, dressed and ready to face his day, nursing a cup of coffee and poring over the newspaper. He beckoned to Peter to join him.

“Don’t you own an undershirt?” Louis teased, rising to his feet as Peter, still in his pajamas, sat down.

“Oh, sssssorry, I can go put one on,” Peter replied, turning to leave the kitchen.

“No, please sit, don’t be silly,” Louis replied.

Peter did as he was told, but felt compelled to explain. “After five years in the same bloody RAF woolen pullover, it’s nice to be shirtless on a warm day, in a bed with soft sheets,” he said with a shrug. He stretched as Louis poured him a cup of coffee and set a plate in front of him. “Thank you, Louis. For everything.”

Louis looked at him warmly. “It’s good to have you here with me, Pierre,” he said. “I think of all we’ve been through together, all the times we helped one another…” His words trailed off. “I’m happy you feel comfortable here,” he observed, patting his friend on the shoulder.

Peter smiled up at Louis. He didn’t have to say a word. They liked one another’s company and they had missed one another. He knew the events of the last 48 hours hadn’t changed that.

Louis liked his morning coffee strong—espresso, he called it. Peter wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it, but each morning at breakfast he liked it a little bit more. The croissants Louis had brought in from the bakery shortly after dawn were buttery and delicious and Peter’s was stuffed with chocolate. Sometimes he couldn’t believe how his life had improved. Mostly, he thought as his mind flickered back to home and Georgie and Violet, and as an image of Mum and Neddie waving from a ship in Southampton invaded his thoughts.

He reminded himself to be grateful for the present moment. “You know Louis,” he said between sips and bites, “a little more than a year ago, we were eating sawdust bread for breakfast and thanking God for the meat.”

“What meat? Mine had weevils,” Louis said.

“Like I said, meat,” Peter said. “This is really quite a bit better,” he added with a grin.

“Everything is better in Paris,” Louis asserted. He looked at Peter and smiled. “I am so pleased to see that you’re happy here. Are you seeing your boyfriend before work today?” he asked.

The word landed like a slap. “He’s not my b-b-boyfriend,” Peter grumbled. “D-do you have to say that?”

“Words count, Pierre. You don’t have to broadcast it to the world, but it’s always a good idea to speak honestly to yourself. Let me rephrase it then. Are you seeing Tomasz?”

Peter nodded and bit his lip, his eyes down. “Yes, we’re mmmeeting in the p-p-park at eleven,” he said. “We’ll have a bite to eat and then we need to fffigure out where to buy sw-swim trunks.” He was blinking as he pushed out the words.

 _Ah, calm down, Pierre, it’s only me_ , Louis thought. “It’s easy. Go to _Le BHV_ on _Rue de Rivoli,_ a very short walk from here _._ They have everything. You are going to _Pontoise_ , then?”

“Yes,” Peter said. Louis nodded encouragingly, and he added, “I asked him last night before we lllleft for home, and he liked the idea,” Peter said. After his meeting with Louis and Henri, Peter had ducked into the alley for a smoke. Tomasz had followed, and they had slipped into a doorway to kiss furtively and make plans. They’d been seeing one another daily since mid-May and they relished any moment they could steal to be together.

Louis nodded approvingly. “Good,” he said. “You’ll have fun, and the more exercise you get, the stronger you will be. And there’s more to life than football.”

“No, there bloody well isn’t!” Peter protested in mock horror.

Louis chuckled, but Peter could tell from the expression on his face that he had something serious on his mind.

“Pierre, do you understand you could have told me about you and Tomasz? You didn’t need to sneak around.”

Peter shrugged uncomfortably, avoiding Louis’s gaze.

“Look at me, Pierre,” Louis said.

Peter looked up. “I w-wasn’t ready.”

“You told me from the beginning about Anja, Pierre,” Louis pointed out.

“Yes, well this is a bit different, isn’t it?” Peter snapped. He caught himself. “Sorry, Louis, I just didn’t know if you’d approve.”

“My approval is the last thing you need to fear,” Louis said. “What about your approval? Do you approve of this friendship?”

Peter looked at Louis in surprise. “Um, yes,” he said.

“And why is that? What do you like?”

“I like Tomasz. We have fun together. Not just… you know,” Peter said.

Louis forced himself not to shake his head. The English were so reserved that a young man of twenty, a man who had experienced love and war, couldn’t even say the word “sex.”

“Yes, exactly. Focus on that, Pierre. There is more to romance than sex. You saw this with Anja, that romance is always best if it begins with a true friendship. And you are good friends, correct?”

Peter relaxed visibly. “Yes, we really are,” he said. “We like a lot of the same things. We like the same films, and we play cards, and obviously we’re both mad for football, and… well, you know he was in the Polish Air Force. He was a mechanic, like me. And when France fell, he was in the Resistance.”

“I did know this,” Louis said solemnly. “And of course he knows we are both airmen, and that we were together in Stalag 13…”

“Yes, and that’s all he knows, b-b-because obviously we can’t say much. I’m sure he thinks we sat on our arses for four years.”

“Five years, but who’s counting?” Louis replied. “We know the truth, Pierre. And as long as it’s classified…”

“…I know that, but sometimes I wonder… well, would people think I was brave if they knew?”

“If they knew what, Pierre?” Louis asked.

“If they knew everything,” Peter said, shrugging. 

“Well, I _do_ know everything, and I think you’re one of the most courageous people I’ve ever met,” Louis said. “And not just because of your age.” Or the war, he added silently.

Peter beamed at that reply, then looked serious again. “Does Henri know, Louis?”

“Know what, Pierre?” Louis asked. He could feel his heart jump in his throat. Did Pierre realize he had spoken to Henri about him, to understand his situation better? Would he be angry?

“About Stalag 13,” Peter said, eyes wide and trusting. “Does he know what we did there?”

Louis could feel a breath of relief escaping. “I haven’t told him anything directly, but I think he knows some things. He had a role in the Resistance that brought him in contact with many of its leaders. And he knows I was in Paris twice when I was a POW. Pierre, I want you to get to know Henri. I think he can help you.”

“He looks so much like you, Louis, only taller of course,” Peter said amiably. “It was nice of him to take such an interest in my health, but I pr-pr-promise I’m really alright now. I haven’t even had a cold since J-January.”

“We’ll have him come to dinner here soon,” Louis said. “I think you’ll find you have a great deal in common.”

“Football fan, eh?” Peter asked as he helped himself to a second croissant. “Or a filmgoer?”

“A little bit of everything,” Louis replied as he got to his feet. “I’m off to _Les Halles_ , the wholesale market.” He stopped to ponder Peter in his shirtless state, with crumbs everywhere. “You should come with me when I go again tomorrow. Today I am ordering our meats and poultry for the week, but tomorrow it will be fruits and vegetables. Pascal will be there, and you could learn some things. I think you’d like it. _Les Halles_ is like all of your London markets rolled into one.”

“You’ve been to the markets in London?” Peter asked in amazement.

“ _Oui_ , when I was a few years younger than you,” Louis replied. “Smithfield, Leadenhall, Billingsgate, Covent Garden. My grandfather took me as part of my education. I went to see Smithfield when I left you in England last August, but there was nothing there.”

“Bleeding V-2 bomb got it,” Peter said. “It’s back in business now,” he added with evident pride.

“You’ll take me there soon,” Louis said. “Tidy up after yourself—don’t leave a mess for Madame Bastian when she comes to clean at eleven. She’ll be here until about one, so plan your return accordingly.”

“I always do,” Peter said with a twinkle in his eye. “See you at the restaurant at four.”

“See you there, Pierre,” Louis said. He was shaking his head and smirking as he headed out the door. Ah, to be young, infatuated, and free of responsibilities.

**XXX**

Peter was leaning against a lamppost in the park, one hand in his pocket, the other dangling a cigarette. He was wearing khaki chinos from an Army surplus shop in New York, a dark green Chemise Lacoste polo shirt, acquired in Paris with his first pay packet and Louis’s firm approval, and natty pair of lace-up spectators in brown and white. It was a gorgeous summer day.

When he saw Tomasz approaching on the gravel path, Peter could feel a little flutter of excitement in his stomach. Tomasz walked with such confidence, his hips splayed wide, long limbs rotated ever so slightly outward. His arms and shoulders moved with a bit of swagger. He was wearing sunglasses, and his dark hair was flopping in front of one lens. His clothes—gray flannel trousers from a suit and a white shirt rolled up to the elbows—weren’t dapper like Peter’s, but it didn’t matter. He looked mature and handsome.

As Tomasz strolled up with a big smile, Peter had to stop himself from brushing the hair back from his eyes. They exchanged a quick kiss as any friends would, and as Tomasz leaned into Peter’s ear, he murmured, “You look sexy.”

“Not half as much as you do,” Peter replied, biting his lip. “You didn’t shave, eh?” The sensation of a stubbly cheek brushing against the soft skin of his face—and other places—excited Peter, and Tomasz knew it. He had a small bag slung on his back; he undoubtedly planned to shave before he left from Louis’s apartment for work.

Tomasz ran a hand over his cheek. "I stay scruffy for you," he said with a wink.

Peter smiled. “Coffee first? Monsieur LeBeau told me where we can go buy our swim trunks.”

They found their way to a favorite café and sat out in the sunshine, side by side with a view of the passers-by. They sipped coffee, nibbled on bread and butter, and indulged in the art of people watching. As a shapely young woman passed, Tomasz wolf-whistled soft and low, but loud enough that she flipped her head to look back at him. A coy smile lit up her creamy complexion, but a rude hand gesture made clear exactly what she thought of him. He whistled again, louder this time, as she strolled on, her brunette hair bobbing as she picked up her pace and looked over her shoulder to sneer at him.

Peter shook his head and stifled a laugh. “You shouldn’t whistle at girls,” he said. “It’s rude, and if you’re unlucky her boyfriend, brother or father will be back here in five minutes to sort you out.”

“I’ll sort them out by leaning over to give you a kiss,” Tomasz said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Oh, that will help. They’ll beat us both to a pulp,” Peter said with a smirk. “Tom, I mean it. You really shouldn’t whistle. It’s disrespectful to women.”

“But she is so beautiful,” Tomasz said with an exaggerated groan. He turning and looked at Peter, carefully appraising him. “But she is not my type.”

“Lucky me,” Peter replied with a grin. “Where’d you get the sunglasses?”

“I have them from my time in Polish Air Force. You like?” Tomasz replied.

“Very much. They look good on you. I ought to get a pair,” Peter replied.

Tomasz took them off and hooked them over Peter’s ears. “There. You look like pilot.”

“Pffft. Pilot,” Peter said dismissively. “I was a mechanic.”

“Because you’re good with your hands,” Tomasz said, running a hand over one of Peter’s. They clutched hands for a moment, but quickly separated.

A tingle went down Peter’s spine. “Jesus, Tommy, I need to be able to stand and walk,” he said. “Not to mention swim. Let’s save it for later, alright?” He was smiling as he said it, but he meant it. It wouldn’t do to get hot and bothered before they could go back to the flat and actually do something about it.

“I just like to tease you because you’re so cute,” Tomasz replied. “Keep the sunglasses.”

“I can’t keep these, Tommy. They’re yours, and they don’t fit me properly at any rate. I’ll get a pair after I get paid, alright?”

“Why wait? LeBeau will buy you a pair.”

“No, he won’t,” Peter replied. “And I wouldn’t ask.”

“Then your papa in London. Or Washington. Wherever he is,” Tomasz teased.

“Not him either,” Peter said with a grin, although he was not particularly pleased with the turn the conversation had taken. “I have to earn things myself.” He took off the glasses, folded them, and handed them back to Tomasz. “Thanks for letting me try them on, mate. They look better on you.”

They finished their coffees and strolled off in the direction of the big department store, _Le BHV_. On their way, they loitered briefly at a _kiosque à journaux_ , looking for football scores in the newspaper, before the settling on a copy of a new publication, _France Football._ Peter thought for a moment and then added a copy of _L'Équipe,_ a sports newspaper which had details on two bicycle races that were coming in July: the _Ronde de France_ , which would go from Bordeaux to Grenoble over five days in mid-July, and _La Course du Tour de France_ , which would begin in Monaco on July 23 and conclude in Paris five days later.

“It’s not the _Tour de France_ , but it’s the next best thing,” the newspaper vendor told them as he counted out Peter's change. “For five years, the Germans made every attempt at a proper race a disaster. They’re saying the _Tour_ will be back next year.”

“July 28,” Peter said excitedly to Tomasz. “That will be a Sunday. We’re off work! We can watch the riders come into Paris.”

“Ah, that’ll be great fun,” Tomasz agreed. “Let’s hurry now, if we’re going to swim today and still have time for other things.”

**XXX**

Two men in need of swim trunks can make decisions very quickly when the clock is ticking and pleasures await. By half past 12, Peter and Tomasz were on the deck of the swimming pool at _Le Piscine Pontoise_ , diving, racing, and splashing one another. A pair of girls around their age joined in the fun, and soon they were all lolling poolside, laughing and flirting. An hour later, they regrouped in the lobby, exchanged phone numbers, and made plans to meet up that Sunday afternoon to swim and see a new comedy, _Au Petit Bonheur_ , at a cinema in the Latin Quarter.

By three o’clock, they were back at the flat. “We have a date,” Tomasz joked as they let themselves in.

“They’re nice girls. We shouldn’t lead them on,” Peter said as he tucked the key into his pocket.

“It’s just for fun. We both like girls’ company. Maybe we can take them dancing sometime. They’re pretty, they’re available, and they’re Catholic, so they have no expectations of this,” Tomasz said as he pulled Peter into a kiss.

Behind them, they heard a cough. Peter turned and saw it was Madame Bastian.

“Pardon,” she said, casting her eyes down. “My schedule is off today because I had to take my sons to the doctor this morning. I’m leaving now. I’m so sorry to interrupt you.”

“It’s nothing,” Peter said. “My friend here was only playing around.”

“Just a joke,” Tomasz said as Madame Bastian let herself out.

“Blimey,” Peter said fiercely. “You can’t just grab me like that, Tomasz.”

“That was close,” Tomasz agreed. “But we’re alone now. And we don’t have much time. Not that I’ll need much time after looking at you in swim trunks for over an hour. All wet… with those trunks clinging to you. And two girls staring at you, looking so hungry…” He ran a hand over Peter’s neck and cheek.

Peter inhaled deeply at the sensation and thought about being with Tomasz in the changing room at _Pontoise_. God, he looked good, wet or dry. Luckily they weren’t the only men at half mast after a vigorous swim. “My bedroom. Now,” he said, and took off at a dash down the hallway.

Fifteen minutes later, they collapsed in a heap, sticky, sweaty, and laughing. They kissed in the shower, Tomasz shaved, they raided the kitchen pantry for bread, cheese and wine, and they were out the door to head to work by quarter to four.

The girls from the swimming baths were lovely and it would be a lot of fun to see them again, Peter thought as they walked together toward the restaurant. He thought he might enjoy kissing the smaller one, Suzanne, if they sat together at the pictures. But beyond that, he intended to be a perfect gentleman. There was no need to try and top what he had with Tomasz.


	13. The Kitchen Brigade

Peter started his day early the next morning, tagging along with Louis to _Les Halles_ before 7 o’clock. A week before summer solstice, the sun was already climbing the sky as they set out from the flat.

“We get three produce deliveries a week,” Louis was explaining as he walked the still-quiet streets alongside his friend. “Everything must be field-fresh and delivered within a few hours of picking, especially the salad greens. You’ve seen we’ve had a lot of waste lately.”

“Pascal is very particular about the color of the leaves,” Peter observed. “No yellowing, no broken mid-ribs.”

“That’s right,” Louis said, pleasantly surprised at Peter’s knowledge. “Haute cuisine demands top-quality ingredients. Our reputation rests on it. Lately, the salad greens have been plagued by tipburn, little brown dots on the leaf margin. We can cut it away, but then we lose the shape of the leaf, and the presentation is poor.”

Louis stopped and held Peter’s arm. “It’s not bad food. It’s edible. It’s just not presentable. I think it has to do with managing water stress during this hot weather. The leaves are growing fast and they don’t get enough calcium.”

“Blimey, where’s Carter when you need him? He would have understood every bit of that, and would probably be able to rig up something to fix it,” Peter said. “The tomatoes are good, though. Pascal says,” he added tentatively as they resumed their walk.

“They are. They’re the finest cultivars. Did you know there are more than 400 varieties of tomatoes grown in France? You have to learn to smell the fruit, Pierre. I will teach you.” Then Louis’s enthusiasm trailed off to a murmur. “Yes, the tomatoes are splendid; we just need a new supplier for the greens until our regular farm gets the problem under control.”

Peter could see Louis was deep in thought about produce. He knew Louis was particular about food; he’d seen that for himself in Stalag 13, when Louis did his best to procure ingredients to keep everyone fed. But beggars can’t be choosers, and there wasn’t much that he turned away. Now, in more prosperous times, it seemed there was a lot of work involved in selecting ingredients for a restaurant. He’d never imagined anyone could deliberate so deeply about food quality, until a thought popped into his own mind. 

“What about asparagus? I haven’t seen much of it on plates lately.” Now that Peter considered it, asparagus had been a wildly popular item on the restaurant’s menu during May and the first half of June. What had happened to it?

“Asparagus? Oh, no, it’s nearly over, _mon pote_. Midsummer’s Day is the end of the season. You go with Pascal, see if you can find some that isn’t woody and stalky, and maybe we’ll have one last hurrah,” Louis said.

“Even the white kind is finished?” Peter asked in a reverent tone.

“Even the white kind,” Louis said with a bitter exhale. “It’s tragic when it’s over.” He sounded like he was grieving a friend. His shoulders looked heavier as they walked along, weighed down by thoughts of asparagus and frisée and tomatoes and endives. Peter didn’t dare speak.

They found Pascal at a beetroot stall, looking over the wares. He handed a vegetable to Peter and commanded him, “Squeeze.” He watched as Peter, with a startled look on his face, applied pressure. Then Pascal asked, “Well?”

 _Well, that’s rather an open-ended question_ , Peter thought. Was this some sort of test? “Um, um, um,” he began. “It’s fffffirm. No decay…”

“Yes, and what about the shape?” Pascal peered at him through wire-rimmed glasses which were topped by eyebrows resembling two black caterpillars.

“It’s, um, b-b-beet shaped.” He heard Louis snicker and resisted the temptation to turn around and belt him. He was, after all, the boss. “L-Like a t-top-heavy carrot?” Peter continued. “Not mmmisshapen for a beet. But, but, but it has um, a crack. A crack, a crack, right here.” He thrust it toward Pascal as if it was on fire.

“Hmmph,” Pascal said, examining the vegetable. “Good eye, young man.” A smile split his face. “Can we keep him, Monsieur LeBeau? My eyes are not what they used to be,” he said. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the vendor and ordered up a week’s supply of beets, with special directions to check for every single one for cracks.

They went from stall to stall, inspecting and critiquing greens, radishes, asparagus, and broccoli. Periodically, Louis was struck by inspiration and instructed Pascal to add a dish to the week’s menu, speaking in a mysterious shorthand that the two of them shared. Between them, they seemed to have memorized the ingredients to an endless list of vegetable recipes.

After an hour, they dispatched a mentally exhausted Peter to a nearby café. He clearly needed a smoke, and he could go ahead to let the maître d’ know they were coming and to secure a good table for breakfast before heading back to the restaurant. Pascal and Louis wrapped up their orders and walked together along city streets that had now become quite busy. Louis slowed his pace to accommodate the old man.

“He leaves us in six weeks, eh?” Pascal said. “It’s too bad. He has ability, Louis.” In public, Louis was always the proprietor, Monsieur LeBeau, even to the man who handed him his first 20-centimeter, hand-forged chef’s knife. But in private, to Pascal, he was once again Louis.

“Yes, unfortunately, I have to let him go back to London,” Louis said.

“In two years, he could do my job, with guidance, of course,” Pascal said. “In five years, he could be on his own, directing others. He’ll get that stammer under control as he gains confidence.”

Peter Newkirk as entremetier? The thought had crossed LeBeau’s mind, though mostly as a joke, and Pierre had already told him in no uncertain terms that he was not interested. “Working in a restaurant is not his wish, unfortunately. I’m not sure what he’ll do back in London. He trained as a tailor,” Louis replied.

“That explains the attention to detail. Louis, he does not think enough of himself,” Pascal said, halting their walk to ensure that he could gesture without accidentally tipping over. “He should be spending time with the other cooks and apprentices, talking about cuisine and honing his craft. Instead, he is in the alleyway with the _plongeurs_ , the pot-washers, the kitchen boys.” A great sweep of hand demonstrated his disdain for anything that occurred in the alleyway.

“Pascal, he comes from a poor family. He feels at home with workers who are still striving. I don’t see anything wrong with the company he keeps, but I do agree, he has a low opinion of himself,” Louis said. “They’re his friends. They play football together.”

“Yes, the Polish boy, I know,” Pascal said, walking again, though more slowly than before “The one who’s always got a new pal, and then after a few weeks he moves on. There are other boys who play football. Pierre should fall in with them.”

Louis shook his head. “I can’t tell him who to befriend, and he seems to like Tomasz.” But he filed away what Pascal had just said. A new friend every few weeks? He hadn’t noticed, but why would he? He had no reason to supervise dishwashers.

“He won’t learn anything from him,” Pascal said vehemently. “Pierre could fall in love with _haute cuisine_ if he could see the passion for the craft and recognize his gift for it. You saw him just now—he is curious and observant. There is no passion in a dishwasher, Louis.”

“Not much, no,” Louis agreed. 

“Tomasz could be doing other things,” Pascal said. “Isn’t he a mechanic? Why is he in the kitchen at all? Is he trying to work his way up?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Louis replied. “I will ask him, though. Would you want to train him when Pierre leaves?” He wasn’t sure if that was what Pascal was driving at.

“No,” Pascal said flatly. “His gaze is always wandering, looking at what others are doing. A _l_ _égumier_ must focus on the small details.”

**XXX**

Later that morning, Peter and Tomasz kicked around a football in the park, as they usually did, sharing the ball for a while with some Greek laborers who were on break from a construction site.

Then they went off for a swim, racing one another in several heats. Tomasz won the Australian crawl; Peter prevailed in the backstroke and breaststroke, and swept all the diving categories. In the shower room, they noticed at last half the men were making extremely pleasant use of the soap, so they took their time getting good and clean under adjacent showerheads. While they didn’t leave fully satisfied—hardly anyone did, it seemed—they certainly enjoyed their stay.

On the way back to the flat, Peter was yawning. He checked his watch. It was already two o’clock, and Louis had mentioned he would be home for lunch at half past two. He told Tomasz.

“Mm, not much time for anything else,” Tomasz said. “Why are you so tired? You’re acting like you just got off.”

“I went to bed late and got up early. We went to _Les Halles_ at the crack of dawn to choose produce.” Peter yawned again.

“Monsieur LeBeau has big plans for you, Pierre,” Tomasz said, looking impressed. Why don’t you go and rest, and we’ll meet up tomorrow instead?”

“You could come for lunch,” Peter said. “Lou… I mean, Monsieur LeBeau wouldn’t mind.”

“No. You’re tired, and …”—Tomasz leaned into Peter’s ear—“We can have a lot more fun when your energy is up.” He blew gently, and Peter shivered and resisted the urge to grab him by the hand.

They stopped at a street corner to go their separate ways, leaning in to kiss one another’s cheeks. The brush of Tomasz’s stubble filled Peter with longing, but he knew Tomasz was right: He was too tired for much of anything. He let himself into the flat, put on fresh clothes, and gathered up Cosette to keep him company while he waited for Louis. He wandered into the large sitting room and plopped himself down into the deep, cozy chair. The cat curled up in his lap.

He didn’t hear the click of a key in the door, or Louis calling his name, and he didn’t feel the blanket Louis spread out over him as he slept. When he finally woke up, it was because Louis was shaking his shoulder and slapping his cheeks.

“Pierre,” Louis said with a devilish grin. “Have you considered that you two boys may be overdoing it? I mean, if you’re this tired…”

“We played football and we went swimming and that was all,” Peter said, blushing at what Louis was implying. “I was too tired for anything else. You’re the one who dragged me out of bed early,” he grumped.

Louis laughed, rumpled Peter’s hair, and leaned in to kiss his forehead. “Poor baby,” he mocked. “Up at seven, just like a normal person.” Peter rolled his eyes and shook his head in dismay and stretched elaborately. Louis, unable to resist an opening, poked him in the belly and under his arms until he was laughing helplessly.

“You’re cruel,” Peter said when Louis finally stopped, but he shut up when Louis pressed a chicken sandwich into his hand. “Oh, thank you,” he said as he took a bite. He sighed; it was simple, and truly delicious.

“I hope you had a nice nap, because we need to leave for work in half an hour, Sleeping Beauty,” Louis said. “You know how busy Friday and Saturday nights are.”

“I already took my shower at the swimming baths,” Peter said, yawning again.

“I know, because for the first time in a week I didn’t slip in a puddle on the bathroom floor,” Louis replied.

“Clearly, I’m falling down on the job,” Peter said, yawning again. “Louis, how did we ever do missions all night, every night of the week?”

“Cat naps,” Louis said. “And cooler stays. They were good for one thing: Catching up on sleep.”

Peter shuddered at the thought. “I lost count after I passed 150 nights in those ruddy cells,” he said.

“You had 200 nights, easily. I had 146,” Louis said.

Peter nodded, lost in thought. “This is much better, isn’t it? A cozy chair, a purring cat, a chicken sandwich, my best mate.” He paused. “A warm bed. A roof to keep out the rain. People looking after me—you, and Mavis, and the Gov.”

His expression was faraway again, and Louis knew he was taking stock—trying to keep his blessings in the forefront and push away his losses. Finally he latched onto a thought that made him smile, and he looked up at LeBeau.

“You haven’t met Nora,” he said. “I’ve met your brother. Now you need to meet another one of my sisters.”

“I’d like that very much,” Louis said with a smile. He made a mental note to check in with Colonel Hogan and see what might be possible.

**XXX**

Rest, food, and a long chat with LeBeau revived Peter, and he dove into his work enthusiastically when he got back to the restaurant. Pascal put him straight to work on preparing carrot medallions and cutting vegetables _fine brunoise_ for the consommé. But there was trouble in the kitchen brigade. The promising young pastry chef had quit a fortnight earlier to return home to Limoges; his father was ill, and there was a family bakery to run. His successor was starting work today, and Louis and the top chefs were counting on Pascal, the oldest hand in the kitchen, to help him out as much as possible.

When Peter had finished preparing ingredients for the evening’s appetizers and entrees, Pascal pulled him aside. “The new _p_ _âtissier_ has a big job on his hands today, and he hasn’t yet hired an assistant. I need you to prepare strawberry hearts to help him out,” Pascal instructed Peter. He put three glass bowls down in front of him. “Fill these. Do you know the technique?”

“No, but I’m sure I can learn,” Peter said confidently.

“I’m sure of that, too. Alright, look. You cut the green stem off straight across the top,” Pascal said. “Slice each strawberry in half the long way down.” He watched as Peter began with his paring knife. “That’s it. Down the middle through to the pointed end. Then cut a little ‘v’ in the top. Not all the way through to the back—just taper it off at the middle.”

Taper. That was something he’d done with fabrics. It made sense. He kept trimming and slicing while Pascal got pulled into a discussion with the sous-chef.

The last bowl was finally filled, but he had more strawberries. He took one of the larger berries in hand and examined it, then quickly carved it into a rosette. He took a few more and filleted them into butterfly shapes. Then he removed the top of a strawberry, thinly sliced it not quite to the end, and used his index finger and thumb to fan the pieces.

Pascal came back and stood at his shoulder. “Who showed you those?” he asked, pointing with a jut of his chin.

“I j-just worked it out. Sorry. I was w-waiting for you…”

“Beautiful work,” Pascal said. “Make more fans and I will use them to garnish the salad tonight. And the rosettes. Hmm. I will discuss those with Monsieur LeBeau.” He smiled at Pierre and thumped him on the back. “Come, meet the new _p_ _âtissier_.”

Peter gathered up his three bowls of berries and follows behind Pascal as they traversed the kitchen to the baking area. A young man, just a few years older than Peter, was instructing a kitchen boy in the preparation of pastry dough. He looked up and his bright blue eyes danced as he saw Pascal approaching. “Ah, Pascal, merci.” He took the bowls Peter offered. “And merci aussi…”

“P-P-Peter. N-Newkirk. P-Peter Newkirk,” Peter said. The awkwardness and embarrassment of introducing himself had actually eased over the years. He was stammering less, but saying his name still involved a bump or two. This time, however, there was something warm and appreciative in the other man’s expression that made it easier for him to finish.

“Well, thank you, Peter Newkirk,” the _p_ _âtissier_ said in English with a smile. He put down the bowls and wiped his hand on his apron. “Where are my manners? I am Julien Gascoigne.”


	14. Des Hauts et Des Bas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title means ups and downs, as Peter is off on an emotional roller coaster ride. I would greatly appreciate comments and reviews.

Sunday. Freedom. Peter had all morning and afternoon to himself. Louis was leaving early for a rendezvous with his former wife, Danielle. They were taking the train to Giverny for brunch at an old friend's house and a visit to Monet's house and garden.

"Dinner is at 8," Louis said softly as he leaned over Peter's bed that morning. "Pierre, are you listening? Wake up."

"Mmmm," Peter said. "Dinner at 8. Where are we going?"

"I'm cooking, remember? Danielle will be here, and so will Henri and Jean-Claude. Do you want to bring a friend to even out the numbers?"

Peter's eyes popped open. He couldn't possibly mean Tomasz. "There's this girl," he said sleepily. "Suzanne. I'll see her today. I could ask."

"You don't want to invite your boyfriend?" Louis said in surprise.

"Louis," Peter grumbled. "I hate that word. He's my friend. He might already have evening plans. Anyway, I don't want Danielle to be the only girl. Who's this Jean-Claude bloke? Do I know him?"

"I'll explain when I get back. I should be here at 4 to start dinner, and I don't want to find you in bed. Not by yourself, and not with anyone else, _compris_?"

"Yesssss," Peter said.

"When is he coming over?" Louis asked.

"What, Tomasz? Around ten o'clock," Peter said. "What time is it?"

"Half past seven."

"Oh my God," Peter groaned. He rolled onto his stomach and pulled a pillow over his head. The cat hopped onto it and settled down comfortably, forcing Peter to pull his head out like an ostrich unburying itself. He flopped on his back, settled his head on a corner of the pillow graciously allotted to him by Cosette, and complained, "It's too early. Why am I awake?"

"You wanted to tell me goodbye," Louis joked. He sat down on the bed next to Peter for a minute. "You can invite Tomasz," he said.

"Suzanne is good company. I think I'd like to have her come over," Peter replied.

"Are you two…" Louis began.

"No, it's not like that," Peter replied. "She's just a very nice girl. We've gone swimming with her and her friend Adele a few times." He shrugged. "She reminds me of Nora."

"Peter, does she think you're interested in her?"

"What?" Peter said. "I, I, I don't know. I, I think… I haven't suggested… I haven't asked her…" He was surprised by Louis's use of his proper English name. He sometimes did that to get Peter's attention, and as usual it had worked.

"Alright, alright. You can have female friends, of course," Louis said. "But you're going to be meeting my brother tonight…"

"I've already met Henri," Peter said, looking puzzled.

"… and his friend. His lover. Jean-Claude," Louis said.

"Oh. Oh. Uh... I didn't know that Henri… I just didn't know," Peter said. He was blushing now.

"Yes. I was hoping you could have an easy conversation," Louis said. "About anything you might need to know."

"What, in front of Danielle?" Peter looked horrified.

"Are you afraid of shocking her? She can't be shocked," Louis said. "She works in fashion. And her brother is also homosexual."

"What?" Peter practically shouted. "How many of these people do you know?"

"Pierre, _you_ are one of these people," Louis said. "And I've told you before, I know many. It's not a big deal to me. The French understand _l’amour_."

Peter was practically hyperventilating. "B-b-b-but I don't want to sit around and t-t-talk about it, Louis. It's pr-pr-pr-pr-private. And I've told you, I don't like that wwword. I'm not sure I am … th-that. I still haven't done, you know, that one thing."

 _Not this again_ , Louis thought irritably. _Pierre believes one act will define him as homosexual, or not. Is he kidding himself, or is he really that unsure?_

"You told me you approved of your friendship with Tomasz," Louis said.

"Yes, it's a good friendship," Peter replied, stressing the word "friend."

"But you want to hide it behind a girl," Louis said. "You're ashamed."

"I like the girl," Peter said. "I'm allowed to like a girl. It's normal to like a girl. Suzanne is pretty and she's sweet. And she's very, very Catholic."

"Meaning what?" Louis said, somewhat shocked. Pierre wasn't one to mention religion.

"Meaning she's not going to 'do it' with me or anyone else right now, but I can still have fun with her, and I don't have to worry about making her … with child," Peter said.

 _Mon Dieu_ , Louis thought, _the word is ‘pregnant_.’ "Alright," he said. "Calm down. You can invite who you like. It's just dinner."

"And Henri and Jean-Claude… is Suzanne going to be able to tell…?" Peter asked.

"How would I know what she can tell or not tell? I haven't even met the girl," Louis said sharply. "But I can tell you this—I am not going to ask my brother to behave a certain way to protect her feelings, or yours.'

Peter looked like he'd been slapped. Louis had lectured him and told him off and put him in his place many, many times before. But it hadn't happened even once since the last winter in Stalag 13, eighteen months earlier, when his health deteriorated to the point where everyone was scared for him.

Now he was scared for himself. He jutted his chin forward, trying to look strong and defiant, but it wasn't working. Louis’s eyes were blazing with anger; Peter looked crushed.

"You told me I didn't have to tell everyone. You told me some things could be pr-pr-private," Peter choked out as his voice grew shaky. "I _do_ want Suzanne to come to dinner. She's the sort of girl I always liked, and she reminds me of Nora."

Louis saw at once that he’d hurt Pierre. He had pushed back in anger and triggered a whirlwind of the emotions Pierre was most vulnerable to—worry, denial, and above all, insecurity. He hadn’t seen his _fr_ _érot_ so upset since he’d hit rock bottom a year earlier.

Physically, Pierre was stronger every day. But inside, he was terrified, Louis realized. Pierre had already suffered so much loss. Acknowledging his attraction to men was like losing himself, his carefully crafted image of who Peter Newkirk was. Of course he was panicking. Pierre had spent the war trying to be older, stronger, and tougher than he really was. Deceiving himself came so easily; exposure had always brought pain and embarrassment. But surely Pierre had to be able to see himself before he could show himself to anyone else.

Louis sat on the bed and wrapped his arms around Peter, who wriggled and pushed back in annoyance before finally giving in and letting Louis comfort him. 

"Invite Suzanne, then," Louis whispered. "We will make her comfortable, because she is our guest. And I will speak to Henri and let him know that he should follow your lead. You'll talk to him when you're ready to talk, _d'accord_? He will understand this. You know why?"

"Why?" Peter asked in a muffled voice.

"Because he is my big brother, and that makes him yours, too. And big brothers never want to hurt their little brothers," Louis said, holding him tighter.

**XXX**

Louis settled Peter down with a cup of tea and assurances that his friends were welcome at Chez LeBeau. He watched him drift back to sleep with Cosette at his side, then left for Danielle’s flat.

“What’s the matter?” she said, greeting him at the door with a kiss. As always, she looked stylish, in a summery, short-sleeved belted dress in a vibrant green. Her shoes were somewhere else.

“I’m 35. I’m much too young for the gray hair that Pierre is giving me,” Louis said with an exaggerated wave of the arm. “Danielle, he is all emotion. I thought he would bring Tomasz tonight, but…”

“You can’t assume he’s ready for that, Louis. Things take time,” she replied with a shrug. “So we won’t have the pleasure of Pierre’s company?”

“No, he’s bringing a girl,” Louis said. “He said he didn’t want you to be the only one,” he teased.

“That’s very kind and considerate, and I’m surprised you didn’t think of it,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. “A girlfriend, or a girl friend?” she asked.

“I have no idea. I’ve completely lost the plot,” Louis said.

“You look adorable when you’re bewildered,” Danielle said. “When do we leave for Giverny?”

Louis checked his watch. “It’s not even 8:30, and our train leaves at 10:48. So we have two hours,” Louis said. “We could get breakfast, but I was thinking we might find something else to do.” He ran his fingers up her bare arm, then paused. “Ah, but you’re already dressed so beautifully.”

“I haven’t dressed until I’ve put my stockings on, and my legs are bare,” Danielle said, stepping closer. “And I’m not sure if you’re aware of it, but this dress has buttons here,” she said, moving his hand to the covered placket on the dress front, “and a zipper right here,” she added, leading his other hand to her ribcage.

“That is very good to know,” Louis said as he gently kissed his former wife and nudged her down the hall.

**XXX**

Peter was barely awake when he heard Tomasz rap at the door. He pulled on a shirt and trousers to dash through the flat, knowing that anyone could be passing by when he let him in. He saw Madame Faucher on the landing below, and waved. She was instructing a new girl—Algerian, perhaps?—in scrubbing the stairs, but she responded with a warm smile and small bow as Peter let Tomasz in.

“Is anyone home?” Tomasz asked with a grin. “The cleaning lady, perhaps?”

“Only Cosette and me,” Peter replied. He was pleased Tomasz had slowed down long enough to ask.

“Good,” Tomasz said, lighting a cigarette and then transferring it to Peter’s lips. He lit one for himself and ran a hand through Peter’s mussy hair.

“You need a haircut,” Tomasz said.

“Tomorrow,” Peter replied as Tomasz’s fingers traveled down to his neck. They put their cigarettes down in an ashtray and kissed, deeply and languorously.

“Coffee,” Peter said as he pulled back from the kiss. He led Tomasz into the kitchen, where Louis had left the aluminum coffee pot on the stove. He knew Louis would be appalled, but he reheated what was in the pot. He and Tomasz weren’t particular, and he could see Tomasz was eager to move on to other things.

**XXX**

“We’re meeting the girls at noon, right?” Peter asked as he dried off from his shower. Tomasz came up from behind him as he bent down to dry his feet, and pressed his still-wet body against Peter’s back.

“Or we could stand them up and stay in bed all day,” Tomasz whispered, pushing harder and stroking Peter’s hip. Peter reached behind himself and whacked Tomasz on the leg.

“Stop that, you naughty boy. Twice in one morning is enough,” he said with a laugh. “Go get dressed.”

Tomasz looked at Peter with doe eyes, then picked up his towel to finish drying off. Peter watched and smiled and felt a surge of warmth. He shouldn’t be embarrassed about his feelings for Tomasz, he told himself. Not around Louis and his brother and Danielle.

“Tomasz, what are you doing tonight?”

“Tonight? I have plans to meet an old friend for dinner. Why?’

“Nothing,” Peter replied. “Monsieur LeBeau is making dinner tonight and asked me to invite a friend.”

To a stuffy dinner party full of Frenchmen, Tomasz thought. “Sorry, Piotr. I don’t think I can get out of this,” he said politely.

“It’s alright, mate. I, I, I might ask Suzanne. Do you mind?” Peter asked. He had followed Tomasz into his bedroom and found him buttoning up his trousers. His broad chest was dark with curls and his arms were muscular from hard work. His dark eyes had a glitter about them.

“You don’t need my permission, Piotr,” Tomasz said with a sly smile as he pulled on his shirt. “We’re not engaged.”

“Ah, nnno, of course, of course, I know I d-don’t need p-p-p-permission,” Peter stammered. “I j-j-just didn’t want to sn-sneak about.”

“Sneaking about must be very exciting, judging from the way that towel around your waist is moving,” Tomasz said with a growl.

Peter sighed. What was exciting was the sight of Tomasz, fresh from the shower, hair still damp, looking strong, teasing him with every word and gesture, and getting dressed in _his_ room. All of that was having a certain, and rather stirring, impact. He dropped the towel to the floor and stepped closer.

He exhaled deeply as their stubbly cheeks rubbed. Tomasz pulled him back to the bed and stripped off the shirt he’d just put on. Peter, still naked from his shower, rested his head on Tomasz’s strong chest and inhaled; he smelled of sandalwood from the soap in the bathroom, and beneath it was a note of olive oil. He felt Tomasz’s hand rubbing, exploring, and suddenly Peter was on his back and Tomasz was on his knees below Peter’s waist.

The rough chafing of stubble brushing against his belly and inner thighs was a feeling Peter could never get enough of. He soaked in the sensations, then tried to position himself to reciprocate.

“No,” Tomasz whispered. “This is all for you. Only you.”

Peter’s heart leapt. Tomasz wanted nothing but to lavish his attention on Peter. He laid back and took it all in. A wet, talented tongue and a pair of soft lips worked him over until he was practically vibrating with anticipation; then it stopped, and a hand was gently stroking that little zone between front and back. Peter didn’t realize how deliciously stimulating that spot could feel and he was luxuriating in the moment. But then Tomasz shifted direction. Suddenly a finger was penetrating him, exploring him. He could feel his heart thumping with rising panic, but he didn’t want to reject Tomasz, so he took it patiently until another finger followed. Then he gasped.

“No,” Peter said, his hand on Tomasz’s arm. “Not there. I liked what you were doing before.” There. He had asked for what he wanted, sort of.

Tomasz slowly withdrew his fingers and resumed his previous attentions, and in moments Peter was on the verge again.

**XXX**

“God, I need another shower,” Peter said as he lay in bed, recovering from the unexpected detour his morning had taken.

“Just wash off,” Tomasz replied, playing with Peter’s hair. “You can shower at _Pontoise_.”

“Oh! Oh, God! We have to go now!” Peter said, sitting up suddenly. Then he looked at Tomasz, who had just given him such incredible pleasure, and he felt selfish. “Tommy, did you want me to…”

Tomasz cuffed him on the head. “No, don’t be fool. I just want to do something special for you because you look so sexy standing there all wet and ready. Use bidet and get dressed. We go meet Suzanne and Adele.”

Peter leaned in and kissed him, sweetly and affectionately. He felt incredibly lucky to have such a giving and understanding lover. He could feel his heart swelling with happiness as he went to wash off.

**XXX**

Suzanne was not just willing; she was delighted. After their swimming date at the _Pointoise_ , they caught a movie. Then Tomasz went his way, and Peter walked Adele and Suzanne back to the tiny flat they shared.

The girls, he already knew, had come to Paris from their village in Picardy. They were second cousins; much of their village, it turned out, was related. Adele’s father owned a small sugar beet farm; Suzanne’s had vanished into the war in 1939 and her schoolteacher mother supported the family. They were working together in a small factory that made buttons—not on the stamping machines, they were quick to point out, but in the office, preparing salesmen’s sample cards, answering the phone, and sorting out orders. It turned out Peter knew quite a bit more about buttons than any boy they’d ever met, and was quite partial to four-hole wooden buttons for menswear, although he also liked leather for durability.

Back at the flat, Peter sat politely in a chair in the sitting room. It was a simply furnished room with a cross on the wall, and a missal mixed in with the fashion magazines on the sofa table. The girls popped in and out of the bedroom they shared to show Peter dresses that might possibly do for an evening at a Parisian gentleman’s home. Although women’s wear was not his strong suit, he took a keen interest. The girls weren’t well off, but they both had nice clothes, and were well spoken, polite, and tidy. They settled on a classic and pretty red dress with piped seams, and white cardigan in case the evening got chilly.

Adele, he learned, had her eyes on a boy she worked with name Lothaire, and they were planning a nice long walk along the Seine this evening. Suzanne, the shyer of the two, didn’t have anyone special. They plied him with tea and biscuits, and then it was time to go. Peter smiled disarmingly, gave Suzanne the address, asked her to be there by half past seven, and promised he’d walk her home. Then he kissed both girls and set off. He could hear Suzanne and Adele sighing and giggling as he went down the stairs, and he turned around to give them a wink.

He left, whistling as he walked from the French Quarter over the bridge to Le Marais. He’d almost forgotten how much he loved female attention.


	15. Le Dîner

It was past 5 o’clock when Peter strolled back into the flat. His nose led him straight to the kitchen.

Louis was preparing _hors d’oeuvres_ —something involving pastry and cheese and sausage and spring onions. “Ah, you’re home,” he said. “We got back late. I just put the _plat principal_ in the oven—guinea fowl with chestnuts and bacon.”

Ah, that was what smelled so good, Peter thought. Oddly, it wasn’t something that had been on the restaurant’s May or June menu. He remembered something he’d heard Pascal say, and almost without thinking, the words were out: “Isn’t that a bit wintery? Chestnuts and bacon? The sauce isn’t creamy, is it?” It sounded like an accusation.

Louis’s first response—astonishment—morphed into an amused smile. “Listen to you, voicing opinions about seasonal menus. There’s hope for you yet,” he laughed. “No, it’s not creamy, because that _would_ be too heavy and wintery for my taste. The chestnuts and bacon are just very homey. It’s a family-style Sunday dinner. Nothing terribly fancy.”

Peter thought for a bit. “Your family,” he said.

“ _Oui_ ,” Louis said with puzzled look.

“Then it’s elegant,” Peter said. “I’d better iron my shirt.”

“Not so fast,” Louis said. “I need you to _julienne_ the carrots and celeriac for the _remoulade_ ,” Louis replied. “Then prepare _potatoes dauphinoise_.”

“ _Oui, Monsieur LeBeau_ ,” Peter responded with a warm smile. “I’ll wash up and be right at my station to perform my duties.”

**XXX**

A few moments later, Peter was back in the kitchen, working happily at Louis’s side.

“We’re a party of six, right?” he asked.

“Eight, actually,” Louis replied absently. “I invited some guests at the last minute.”

Peter bit his lip. He hoped this wouldn’t be difficult. He was fine with Louis, Danielle and Henri, and of course Suzanne. He was expecting to meet one new person, Jean-Claude. He could manage that pretty well, but meeting multiple new people tended to leave him tongue-tied.

Louis saw Peter suddenly turning pensive, and it didn’t take any imagination for him to figure out what he was thinking. “You’ve already met one of them, Pierre,” he said. “It’s Julien Gascoigne, the new pastry chef. He is coming with his fiancée. How old is Suzanne?”

“Same as me, twenty,” Peter replied, looking relieved. He’d spoken to Julien in the kitchen, and though it had been a struggle to get his name out, Julien never gave him the dreaded “look.” There was an awkward, pitying expression that Peter’s listeners sometimes showed, which usually made him stammer harder and feel sick at the stomach and in desperate need of fresh air.

“Well, Julien is twenty-four, and I think Josette must be a year or two younger. So you will have youthful companions. They grew up together in Troyes—her father has an excellent small vineyard in the Champagne region.”

That sounded alright, Peter thought. Maybe Suzanne and Josette would hit it off. “You and Danielle are youthful,” he said earnestly. “For people in their 30s, I mean.” _Ooh_ , he thought as soon as the words were out. _That sounded wrong_.

“Thank you, but we really are not,” Louis said, shaking his head and laughing. “We’ve been married and divorced, for one thing.”

“Why did you do that, anyway? Divorce Danielle, I mean,” Peter replied. He’d be puzzling over this since he met Danielle several weeks earlier. She was perfect for Louis—a bright, self-assured woman with style and grace. Plus, Peter didn’t understand divorce at all; he’d never met a soul in England whose marriage ended that way. Divorce was a serious and difficult matter in England; was it easy in France? Louis had always been very matter of fact about it.

“Love is strange,” Louis said with a Gallic shrug that seemed to involve every muscle from his eyebrows to his fingertips.

“Are you getting back together?” Peter persisted.

“We’ll have to see, Pierre. We’ve been seeing each other since I returned last August. She is very independent, and very happy living on her own. But we have a mutual understanding, so…” He and Danielle had always kept certain doors open to one another, but the war had intervened; getting reacquainted had been a joy, and not just because he'd been rather deprived in that department. They were somehow more in tune with one another now. He turned to smile at Peter. “What do you think?”

“I’ve only met her twice, Louis, but you two seem like a good match. You’re relaxed together. It looks easy for you to simply be with one another,” Peter said seriously. “That’s something special, Louis. I would hope two independent people could find a way to build a life together if it made sense to do.” He shrugged. “I like her, and I think she’s good for you, mate. And she’s gorgeous to boot.”

“Hmm,” Louis said. His eyes were smiling as he looked wordlessly at Peter, and the feeling was mutual. Louis had grown accustomed to thinking of Peter as young and in need of guidance, but here he was, sounding quite thoughtful and mature. Danielle was in the full flower of womanhood, no doubt, yet it was the last thing Pierre mentioned. Well, maybe there was an obvious reason for that, Louis thought for a moment—but no. Pierre had always had an eye for the ladies, and clearly still did; his brother was the same. No, Pierre had mentioned her appearance last because he understood that many other things made a couple compatible.

Time apart had tamed two wild hearts, Louis thought, and Pierre saw it. And the truth was, Pierre’s observations mattered to Louis. Yes, he was young, but he was Louis’s closest confidant, and had been for years. Louis respected his ability to read people and situations.

“I’m very glad you like her, Pierre, and you’re right—we are very relaxed together,” Louis said warmly. He leaned over to see what Peter was doing. “Ah, the potatoes are sliced perfectly. You’ve learned a great deal from Pascal.”

“I think I learned that from you, mate, from four years of eating almost nothing but spuds. Try to ignore it if I’m not finishing my potatoes tonight, alright? I’ve had my fill of them for a lifetime,” he grinned. He patted his stomach. “I’m not too thin anymore, am I?”

“No, you’ve filled out very nicely on croissants and baguettes and butter,” Louis joked.

**XXX**

Danielle arrived at Louis’s flat at a quarter past seven. Peter answered the door, and she swished past him to put her handbag down. She was striking, as always, with her dark blond hair rolled to shoulder length. She wore a powder-blue suit with a leopard belt and shoes to match, and it was such an unexpected and clever combination that Peter laughed with delight. She looked at him quizzically until he spoke.

“It’s so surprising, Danielle, leopard and blue together. It’s vvvery charming,” Peter said as he touched the belt gently. “Sssorry,” he apologized immediately, wondering if he’d been too familiar.

She tugged his hand to pull him closer. “You sweet boy,” she said. “You really like it?” She looked over Peter’s shoulder to her former husband. “Louis never notices accessories, but I’m passionate about them.”

“Oh, me too,” Peter said. “If your clothes are beautifully made to begin with, you’ll always look good. But when you add a well-chosen belt or hat or, or, or a tie for a gentleman, it can elevate the whole effect of an outfit.” He bit his lip. He thought about these things, but there very few opportunities to speak them out loud.

“You should listen to Peter, Louis,” Danielle said playfully. “And take him with you to buy some new ties. I bought that one for you nearly 10 years ago,” she said, pointing with her chin at a gray paisley tie that he was wearing with blue shirt and gray suit. “Fashion has moved on.”

Louis rolled his eyes and laughed. Danielle took Peter by the arm and they walked into the living room, with its large windows.

“You look dashing, Peter,” Danielle said, inspecting him closer as she accepted an _ap_ _értif_ glass from Louis. He was wearing a smart windowpane check suit in an interesting shade of blue, somewhere between royal blue and indigo. His shirt was the palest lavender, his tie a solid blue that matched the lines in his suit. The effect was subtle and young yet sophisticated. In his pocket was a white silk handkerchief with deep blue stitching around the edge and his initials, P-C-N, in a bright pinkish purple thread that accentuated the shirt color. Danielle reached out to touch the pocket square. “This is very nice,” she said.

“A girl made it for me,” Peter said proudly.

“A thirteen year old girl,” Louis teased. “She did a beautiful job regardless of her age,” he added hastily. He knew how fond Peter was of Hannelore. “He hasn’t told you the best part. He made the suit.”

“You made this? Yourself?” Danielle said in amazement. She had Peter turn around so she could have a closer look. The workmanship was first-rate. “I didn’t know you had a sewing machine here in the flat, Louis.”

“We don’t,” Louis said. “It’s all sewn by hand.”

Danielle’s eyes grew even wider. “Peter, you are a marvel,” she said. The pattern matching was perfect, and the pick stitching was miniscule. “Let me see the back of the trousers,” she said eagerly.

“Danielle!” Louis said.

“She knows what she’s looking for,” Peter said as he took his off jacket and handed it to Louis. He turned and showed her the notched, continuous waistband. His trousers were held up by a pair of Y-back suspenders.

“Very nice work,” she murmured.

“I’ve never known you to wear braces,” Louis said, coming over to tug at the strap.

“You’ve never known me to have a choice, have you? I’ve always had to wear a uniform. I usually prefer a side tab, but the fish-mouth notch is comfortable, especially at a meal.”

The explanation made sense, Louis realized, but he would never have come up with it. He'd helped Pierre with tailoring many times, but he had no real grasp of its details. He'd never realized until he met Pierre that putting a suit together was as complicated as it was, or that anyone could be so particular about it.

Peter shrugged his jacket back on. Louis poured _ap_ _értifs_ for himself and Peter and looked at his watch. Their guests would be arriving soon.

Moments later, Henri and Jean-Claude joined the group, and then the doorbell rang again. Peter ran to it, hoping it would be Suzanne.

It was Suzanne, looking sweet and lovely, and she was accompanied by Julien and his fiancée. They’d met on the way into the courtyard and were chatting like old friends. Peter hadn’t been to many dinner parties, but as he proudly escorted Suzanne on his arm into the living room, he thought was going to enjoy this one. 

**XXX**

Peter and Suzanne made a charming couple. Her dark brown hair was swept back, but she had ringlets that couldn’t be tamed, and they winked and wiggled on her ivory-white neck, working themselves loose. Her nut-brown eyes were large and round, and the cherry-red dress she wore matched her lips. He stayed by her side, warm, attentive, and very handsome.

At eight o’clock sharp, they trooped into the rarely used dining room for dinner. The table was set using Louis’s grandmother’s green and gold rimmed porcelain, and the table was decorated with summer greens and gladioli, no doubt cut that morning in Giverny, standing tall in vases. Louis had enlisted a _commis_ chef and two waiters from the restaurant to run the kitchen and assist at the table so that he could enjoy the meal he’d prepared. He took his place at the head of the table; Henri, as the eldest guest, was at the opposite end. On Louis’s right sat Josette, Pierre and Suzanne. On his left were Julien, Jean-Claude and Danielle.

Conversation unfolded easily, ranging from books to politics to the amusing phrases and mannerisms of the LeBeau brothers' late father. By the time the _plat principal_ was served, it surfaced that Suzanne had trained in ballet before the war disrupted everything, and a new topic took off. She was only a young girl at the time, of course, but her training had been serious enough to bring her to Paris several times a year for workshops at the Paris Opera Ballet. Ultimately, she was deemed too petite for the _corps de ballet_ , but she’d never stopped loving the art. She was studying dance again two evenings a week for exercise.

“Louis!” Henri announced to his brother at the opposite end of the table. “We have a ballerina in our midst!” Suzanne smiled shyly, and Peter felt pure delight at how demure and sweet she looked. He took her hand under the table and squeezed it, and she looked at him affectionately.

It turned out that everyone—everyone but Peter, that is—held warm memories of great ballet performances. They spoke of Diaghilev and the _Ballets Russes_ and of Balanchine and the awfulness of losing him to America; they spoke of _Copp_ _èlia_ and _Giselle_ and _La Sylphide_ and _Swan Lake_. Danielle had trained for a while when she was a girl, too, but pronounced herself too clumsy to continue past age fourteen.

Jean-Claude, who was long and lean and muscular, mentioned he had trained as a young boy until he was eleven and football took over his brain cells; he’d regretted quitting—he had the build for dance—but Danielle pointed out the training he did have had made him light on his feet and an excellent ballroom dancer. Peter found himself puzzling about that. He glanced at Henri. Did they ever dance together?

Josette, who was seated at Peter’s right side, turned to him in the midst of the conversation. “Have you seen a ballet performance?”

“No,” he admitted, shaking his head with eyes wide. He stopped himself from saying he’d been to the music hall and onstage; he knew that ballet was for sophisticated people, not working class lads like him. Inside he was a bit startled about the enthusiasm for what he regarded as a lot of prancing about. Not that he didn’t like to dance; he did. It was great fun to twirl a girl around on the floor. But that sort of dance could get a chap labeled a fairy, and that was the last thing he needed.

“I wouldn’t give it a chance as a boy,” Julien said. “My mother had to drag my brother and me every Christmas. There was always a Christmas week performance of _Swan Lake_ or _Sleeping Beauty_ or _Copp_ _èlia_ , and my sister loved it. But gradually the music seeped into me, and then I started noticing the athleticism of it. The men lifting women into the air like feathers.” His blue eyes had a dreamy, faraway look, and for just a moment, Peter found himself gazing intently in his direction, wondering what he was thinking.  
  
“It’s a difficult art form,” Henri interjected, jolting Peter’s attention away. “It’s like a lot of classical music. Sometimes it can be hard to know if they’re performing moderately well or spectacularly. You learn simply by seeing it a lot. Which is where a mother’s insistence comes in handy,” he said with a grin and nod at Louis.

“We were dragged, too,” Louis said. “As Julien said, it seeps in gradually. Except for Henri. He prefers jazz,” he said, stressing the word with humorous disdain.

“Who doesn’t?” Henri joked. “If we’re being serious, I mean. Most modern people like modern music.”

“Don’t you think snobbery keeps people away from ballet?” Jean-Claude asked. “It’s seen as elite. It’s intimidating. And of course it’s seen as effeminate.”

“I’m not sure how anyone concludes that men in tights are lacking in the masculinity department,” Danielle said, biting her lip at the knowledge she’d just said something naughty. Everyone laughed, even serious, Catholic Suzanne—but not Peter, who blushed furiously.

Danielle and Louis both saw it, and both jumped in to redirect the conversation.

“The costumes are the extraordinary thing,” Danielle said. Henri, Jean-Claude and Suzanne all murmured in agreement, consciously giving Peter a chance to recover his composure.

“The workmanship is remarkable, Pierre. You would be impressed,” Louis said.

“I know!” Julien said excitedly. “We should all go together to the ballet when the season starts again in October. They’re doing Prokofiev’s new _Cinderella_. It premiered last year at the Bolshoi!”

Henri and Jean-Claude quickly agreed; so did Louis and Danielle. Suzanne looked at Peter expectantly. He gulped, then turned to Julien.

“I, I won’t be here,” Peter said. “I’ll be back in London.”

“Oh, that’s a pity,” Josette said, and it sounded like she really meant it.

“Well, do you ever come back? We could plan around it,” Julien said. “We’ll buy our tickets in September.”

“I, I’d have to see what the Guv say. I’ll ask I can c-c-come back,” Peter replied.

“The Guv?” Julien asked quizzically.

“His guardian in England,” Louis translated for Julien, then turned to Peter. “He will let you come, and you’re almost twenty-one. You can decide to return when you want,” he said reassuringly. “And you have your own room here.”

“Well, then I’d like that very much,” Peter said. “If, if, if Suzanne would accompany me,” he added with a smile.

**XXX**

After the cheese course and after dessert, Pierre excused himself for a moment to take a bathroom break. He had just finished washing his hands and stepped back into the corridor when he saw Henri approaching. His grandmother’s flat was a second home, so he’d instinctively made his way to the family bathroom instead of using the guest facilities.

“Peter!” Henri said cheerfully. “Come talk to me for a minute.” He led him down the hallway to the small bedroom at the end, which doubled as a sitting room.

“I know this isn’t the easiest topic, but I want to be helpful to you,” he said softly as the closed the door. “Are you still with your young man, or has that changed?”

Peter blinked and lowered his head, trying to make words emerge. He forced himself to look Henri in the eyes—the same sensitive brown eyes that Louis had.

“Y-yes, we’re still together,” he said. “B-b-but Suzanne’s lovely, isn’t she?”

“She is lovely,” Henri said agreeably. “Sit for a moment.” Peter sat on the edge of the bed, and Henri pulled up a chair, sitting knee-to-knee with him.

“Are you interested in her?” he asked.

“W-w-well, yes,” Peter replied. “As a fr-friend. We’re friends.”

Henri nodded, waiting for Peter to go on.

“I, I, I like the way I feel around girls. And, um, I like the things I do with b-boys.”

“Yes, you’re putting them in compartments. That’s something I did, too,” Henri said. “It’s easier to be seen with young ladies. It’s what society expects of men. It is more difficult to be seen with a young man as your partner.”

Peter nodded, feeling relief at having this understood. “P-p-people st-stare at me all the time wwwwhen I stammer,” Peter said. “I bloody hate it. I don’t need to give people another rrreason to st-stare.” He looked up at Henri, hoping for a glimmer of recognition.

He got it. Henri bobbed his head the way Louis often did when he was in agreement. “There is the issue of being seen,” he said. “And there is the issue of being honest with yourself and others.”

“This is all new to me, Henri,” Peter said. ‘Being with a lad, I mean. M-maybe I’ll get over it, you know? Does that ever happen?”

“Sometimes,” Henri said, although he did not add what he was thinking— _but not that often. Usually the attraction to the same sex intensifies_. “Attraction is attraction, Peter. You can’t fight it. But while you’re sorting it all out up here,” he said, tapping his head, “you need to be honest and kind. You don’t want to break that sweet girl’s heart, do you?”

“I won’t, Henri. She knows I have to go back to England soon. I’m her practice boyfriend,” Peter said. He looked so earnest, his eyes wide, his face so young and fresh.

“It’s nice to have friends of both sexes, isn’t it?” Henri said encouragingly. “Women are delightful companions. Men are too. Look, you can talk to me anytime. Even when you’re back in England, alright? Things are different there.”

“Different how?” Peter asked.

“Let’s meet another time to talk about that, shall we? We should get back to the party, and I need to stop for what I came down here for.”

“So you weren’t just following me,” Peter joked.

“Hardly,” Henri said. “But I did want to talk, so I’m glad we had this chat.”

Peter stood up to go, then thought of something. He tugged on Henri’s sleeve.

“Henri, when you’re alone with Jean-Claude, do you ever…” Peter stopped to take a deep breath. “Well, do you ever dance? J-just the two of you?”

Henri’s smile crinkled. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, we absolutely do. Very often, in fact. Just us.”

“Who leads?” Peter asked.

“We take turns,” Henri replied.

Peter nodded seriously, trying to decide how to categorize that information. Then he ducked into his bedroom to pet Cosette, who was sleeping on his bed, while Henri finished up in the bathroom.

They walked back into the living room side by side. Suzanne, Danielle, Louis and Jean-Claude were in a cluster, chatting. Julien was with Josette, a hand on her waist, gazing deep into her eyes. Peter watched as he kissed her, then felt Henri’s hand on his shoulder.

“You’re staring,” he whispered into Peter’s ear. “Go to Suzanne. Hold her hand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if the Paris Opera Ballet actually performed Cinderella in 1946, because I can't find a production history, but they should have. Prokofiev’s version premiered at the Bolshoi in November 1945, and was instantly popular.


	16. Le Petit Ami

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title means "The Boyfriend"

It was after eleven o’clock when the dinner finally wound down. Peter, as promised, walked Suzanne to her flat in the Latin Quarter. Even on a Sunday night, the neighborhood was bursting with life as students gathered in clusters on the crowded, cobblestone streets.

Peter and Suzanne held hands and chatted the whole way.

“Pierre, I had a marvelous time tonight,” Suzanne said. “Everyone was so sophisticated and welcoming. Do you really have to leave in August?”

“I do,” Peter said. “But Louis is my friend, so I’ll be back,” he added, swinging her hand playfully as they strolled. “I think the Guv will let me come back for the ballet.”

“Who is this ‘Guv’? Monsieur LeBeau said he was your ‘guardian.’ Have your parents passed away, Pierre?”

“No, but they’re far away. My mum is in Australia. And the Guv, well, he’s more of a father to me than my real father ever was.”

“My father died in the war, or at least that’s what we think,” Suzanne said. “I already told you that, didn’t I?”

He squeezed her hand. “Yes, you did. It was a hard war, Suzanne. I was a prisoner in Germany for several years of it, with Louis and the Guv.”

“Non!” she said in surprise. “You were a prisoner? Were you in the Army?”

“I was in the RAF,” he said. “I was at Dunkirk.”

“Pierre, you’re older than you look!”

“Well, I joined up a bit young, but yes, I suppose I am,” he replied evasively. “I’m older than I ought to be, really.” Suzanne had mentioned that she had recently turned twenty, but she hadn’t asked his exact age. Peter was content to let her think he might be a few years older than she was.

They stopped in front of her building. “It’s too late to ask you up, Pierre. Adele is sleeping, and the landlady would go out of her mind if I took a boy upstairs with no escort,” Suzanne said apologetically.

“It’s alright,” Peter laughed. “We can say goodbye here.” He hung there awkwardly for a moment, debating what to do. Her face was so round and mellow, her eyes so bright and sincere, and he made his decision.

He raised his hand, caressed her smooth cheek and neck, and kissed her, slowly and softly, parting her lips with his, tasting the fragrance of sherry. He could feel his heart beat faster as she gave in to the kiss. She pressed in for more, than drew back shyly, looking down but smiling. They stepped back from one another, breathless, for just a moment, and then a surge of need moved him toward her again. His tongue caressed her bottom lip, searching for its playmate. She buried her fingers in his clipped hair; his hand ran down her shoulder and fondled the front of her dress, and then she gulped and pulled back again, gasping and giggling.

She smoothed down her dress, then looked up at him and touched his cheek. “Well,” she said softly, “I think I had better go up now.”

“Thank you for coming with me, Suzanne,” Peter said, covering her hand where it lay on his cheek, then gently taking her hand to hold it by her side. “It was wonderful to spend time with you, and, and, and I hope you enjoyed the dinner. C-can I see you again soon?”

“I would like that,” she said bashfully, looking slightly down once again.

“I’m, I’m only off work on Sundays and Mondays,” Peter said. “I, um, I go to work after three o’clock. Could I take you to lunch?”

“That would be lovely,” Suzanne said. “When?”

“Wednesday?” Peter asked.

“Wednesday is perfect. Meet me at the factory at half past twelve; there are several bistros nearby.”

“Till Wednesday, then,” he smiled. He strolled off into the night, feeling connected to a part of himself he almost forgot existed. There was something wonderful about a girl. Her scent, her plushness, her trust in his strength. He felt self-assured in her presence, for being the one to get her home safely after dark.

**XXX**

At half-past eleven in the rundown neighborhood near _Gare du Nord_ , Tomasz was making coffee for himself and a friend. Their dinner plans were not quite as advertised. Yes, they had shared a meal. After that, they had shared a bed. Despite what Tomasz said to Peter, Dimitris was not an old friend; he was a fellow refugee, a Greek laborer who was working on construction sites. They’d met a few days earlier in the park over a pickup football game.

The attraction had been intense. Dimitris liked tall, muscular men, and Tomasz fit the bill. Dimitris had a spark about him, and Tomasz noticed it, even though he wasn’t his usual type at all. Tomasz leaned toward boyish figures like Peter’s, and Dimitris was solid, burly, and older than thirty. But Dimitris knew how to make his interests known, and he had quietly declared openness to certain activities that Peter was shy about. That got Tomasz’s attention.

This wasn’t unfaithful, Tomasz rationalized. He adored Peter. He didn’t want to push him into anything he wasn’t ready for. He was still young and inexperienced; eventually he’d come around, Tomasz would see to that. But in the meantime, Tomasz had an itch he needed to scratch. Surely Peter would understand that. He might be grateful, actually. They could keep going slow together. And Peter was out tonight with a girl, after all. He probably had her in bed by now, Tomasz figured.

He brought the coffee to the corner of the room where he slept and set it down on the floor next to the rough mattress. “This should keep us going a little longer,” he said with a wink at Dimitris. He lowered himself to the mattress and sprawled out next to Dimitris, lying side to side and face to face. “We have to keep the noise down,” he said, stroking Dimitris’s chest. “My landlady is very nosy.”

“Maybe there’s somewhere else we can go,” Dimitris said as his hand wandered lower.

Tomasz had already considered that. “I do have one idea,” he said. “But we can only go there on Sundays and Mondays. And not tonight. We’ll think about it tomorrow.”

**XXX**

Peter was loosening his tie as he entered the flat at midnight. He walked past the kitchen and saw the _commis_ and the waiters with their sleeves rolled up, chatting amiably as they finished off the dishes and restored the kitchen to order. They were all very junior staff members, working extra hours to earn more money and bask in the presence of the proprietor himself, who was known to impart small but vital impromptu lessons to those who worked hard. Peter saw a light down the hall in the living room and heard Louis and Danielle’s laughter. He hung up his jacket in the hallway, then rolled up his sleeves as he turned into the kitchen.

“How can I help?” he asked.

“Ah, Monsieur Pierre,” said Gaston, the _commis_ chef, one of the few people other than the busboys and dishwashers who was junior to Peter in the hierarchy of the kitchen brigade, and a bit younger, too. “Not to worry, we’re getting it done.”

“Nonsense, I can do something,” Peter insisted. He tied an apron around his waist to protect his suit trousers and picked up a towel. “I’ll dry the crystal,” he said. He’d learned the hard way how particular Louis was about its condition and precise placement in the cabinet, and he figured he might as well spare the others than lesson.

They worked quietly for a while. Gaston, sandy haired and fresh faced, looked up and smiled shyly. “If I may say so, Monsieur Pierre, the young lady you were with was very lovely,” he said.

“I think so too,” Peter grinned. “I met her at the _Piscine Pontoise_. We both swim there a lot.”

“With your friend Tomasz,” one of the waiters put in.

“Yes, we swim most days for exercise,” Peter answered, not wanting to add any detail.

“Tomasz has many friends,” the waiter said. “Many, many friends.”

“Does he?” Peter asked. “Well, he’s been in Paris for years and you mmmmeet people playing fffootball.”

“Do you play football?” Gaston inquired. “A number of the cooking staff play. And the wait staff,” he said with a nod toward the other waiter, who remained quiet.

“Every chance I get,” Peter said with a smile.

“Well, you should play with us—not the _plongeurs_ ,” the waiter said. A sneer had entered his voice now. “The junior chefs and waiters, we are your peers, not the busboys.”

“Maybe not even your peers, since you live with Monsieur LeBeau,” Gaston said in a reverent tone. “You must be learning so much. What a way to start your cooking career! Well, anyway, it would be fun if you played with us.”

Peter bit back any response to the waiter, because there were too many thoughts racing around in his head. Bloody class system, he thought. He thought it was bad in England—and it was—but waiters looking down on busboys seemed arrogant to him. And why did that waiter mention Tomasz at all, and why did he know how many friends he had? Tom was a friendly chap; that was all. People were drawn to him. It was something about his eyes and his smile.

“I’ll think about it,” Peter told Gaston. “When do you play?”

“Usually Tuesday and Thursday mornings before work, with a match early on Saturday morning, before work," Gaston said eagerly. “You should come—and bring Monsieur LeBeau! I don’t think he’s ever watched us play,” he added, then slowed down and suddenly looked embarrassed. “At least not since I’ve been here. I only got to Paris eight months ago.”

“You’ve been at the restaurant since it reopened, then!” Peter said brightly. Good lord, he thought, Gaston was shyer than he was. He could buck him up. “I’ll ask Monsieur LeBeau,” he said. “He does like watching football.”

**XXX**

Peter dried his hands as Louis thanked the crew, pressed a small envelope of cash into each man’s hand, and saw them to the door. Danielle had wandered into the kitchen and was chatting with Peter when Louis returned.

“You didn’t need to clean up, Pierre,” Louis said. “You were a guest at this dinner.”

“It’s not a pr-problem. Louis, I was just trying to be useful,” Peter said.

Louis nodded. Yes, he knew this about Pierre. Always trying to be useful. “You got Suzanne home safely?” he asked. Weariness from a long day was showing as he took a seat at the table.

“Yes. She lives in the Latin Quarter, not far from the swimming baths where we met,” Peter said, joining him there and lighting a cigarette. Louis waved away the offer of one and pushed an ashtray toward him. “I had her home by half-past eleven. I think the landlady is very particular about not staying out late.”

“That’s not unusual,” Danielle said, her arms draped over Louis’s shoulders. “Not that I ever lived on my own before marriage, but a lot of working girls do, and they’re expected to behave respectably. She’s an interesting girl, Pierre.”

“I d-didn’t know she was a dancer, but I can see it now in the way she moves,” Peter replied. “But blimey, everyone knows so much about ballet but me.”

“If you’ve never been to a ballet, how would you know?” Louis asked.

Peter shrugged. “I wouldn’t. B-but…” He hesitated. “Well, you’re all so ssssophisticated. I’m not. I’m just a plonker from the East End. I think Suzanne is expecting me to be all cultured now.”

Danielle smiled. She’d noticed the way Suzanne looked at Peter all evening, and she felt quite sure that it nothing to do with how cultured he might be. “I think she just enjoys _you_ , Pierre. We all do. You’re an interesting young man in your own right. You held your own when we were talking about films and football.” She leaned in. “And you’re very handsome,” she said in a teasing voice.

Peter beamed at Danielle, unsure how else to respond and hoping he wasn’t blushing.

“Stop telling him that. You’ll give him a big head,” Louis said, playfully kicking Peter under the table.

Peter rolled his eyes. “I’m taking Suzanne to lunch on Wednesday,” he said.

Louis’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?” he said.

“Yes, really,” Peter replied sharply. “I do know a bit about girls. You do remember Anja, don’t you? We got on quite well.” He felt embarrassed as soon as he said it, because most of what he _really_ knew about girls was taught to him by Louis.

“Hmm. And Tomasz?” Louis said softly.

“Nothing’s changed,” Peter said, glancing uneasily at Danielle as he said it. “Louis, they both know I’m only here for a few more weeks. None of this is forever. And Suzanne is very, very…”

“…Catholic, I know,” Louis said. “You say this as if a Catholic girl never had any expectations of _un petit ami_ , as if she never heard of sex.”

Peter could feel himself flushing. Why had Louis said that word in front of Danielle? “Well, Tomasz says…”

“Tomasz is not an authority on young French women,” Louis said. “He seems to have devoted all of his attention to men, Pierre.”

Peter opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself. Tomasz had always made a point of saying how unavailable French women were. It was something he should ask Louis about when Danielle wasn’t present.

“Pierre, all I am saying is, do not use this girl to cover up your feelings for men. She has a heart that can be easily broken.”

“I know that, Louis. I, I wouldn’t hurt her. And she knows I can’t stay,” Peter said. He glanced up at Danielle. He had figured the cat was out of the bag about his interest in men, but he didn’t particularly want that figurative feline prancing about the room, rubbing up against Danielle’s legs.

Danielle spoke up softly. "She might be very hurt if she realized you were involved with another man while you're seeing her, Peter. Even if you're not being intimate with her, that could be hard for her to hear. Do you understand?"

Peter nodded. "But it won't come up," he said. "And, and I can slow things down with Tomasz if I want to, to pay more attention to girls."

"Is that what you want, Pierre?" Louis asked, with skepticism coloring his tone. He was well aware that Peter was in the middle of an intense sexual infatuation. Madame Faucher had reported to him on the frequency of Tomasz's visits; he knew they were a daily occurrence and lasted for several hours. He also knew the sheets needed more frequent changing, according to Madame Bastian, and that she thought she had seen them kissing. The poor woman readily accepted Louis's explanation that they were immature boys who could be very silly and playful at times; her sensibilities were too shocked for her to put two and two together.

"I'm thinking about it," Peter said defiantly. "She's a very nice girl. She reminds me of my sister Nora."

Louis smiled as if he'd just remembered something very important--which he had. "Ah, about that," he said. "Colonel Hogan cabled this afternoon while you were out. He has made arrangements for you to have two visitors."

"Nora's coming?" Peter said. His eyes lit up like a child looking through a toy store window.

"And Mavis. For one week, arriving next Sunday. We'll meet them in Calais, and they'll stay here with us. They'll have to take your room, and you'll use the sitting room for the week, if that's alright."

"That's perfect!" Peter said gleefully. He was up and hauling Louis onto his feet. He lifted him off the ground with joy and plastered kisses on both his cheeks. Then he swept Danielle into his arms, kissed her, and picked her up to spin with her.

Half an hour later, as Peter got ready for bed, he rehearsed in his mind how it would be to have his sisters here. They would meet Tomasz, of course, because he would take them to watch him play football. And they would meet Suzanne, because he would take them all to tea. They would see he had made friends—and with girls, not just boys—and they'd tell Colonel Hogan how happy he was in Paris. And it would be the truth, but some things would remain private.


	17. Retour en arrière (Flashback)

Monday. Early afternoon. Peter was whistling jauntily as he waited at the appointed spot in the park to meet Tomasz. He had his football with him and was juggling it idly from foot to foot while he waited. He had just checked his watch and started on a series of around-the-world juggles when Tomasz came into view. Peter passed the ball to him as he approached and got it right back and trapped it. He stood there with his foot on the ball, grinning.

“I really need to get a pair of those sunglasses,” Peter said at Tomasz leaned in to _faire la bise_. He felt the prickle of Tomasz’s cheek against his own, and rested a hand on his arm. “Let me see again,” Peter said.

He reached up to the glasses, but Tomasz pulled back. “No, leave them for now. My eyes are bothering me today,” he said. “How was your party last night?”

“The dinner? Oh, it was grand,” Peter said. “Monsieur Gascoigne was there too, with his fiancée.”

“How nice for you,” Tomasz said in a teasing tone. “You go to fancy party with big shots.”

“Well,” Peter stammered, “Not, not, not really. I saw Gaston too.”

“At the dinner table?”

“Ah, no, he was, um…”

“Working in the kitchen?” Tomasz said. “Yes, I heard. He was happy to have extra pay. So were the _plongeurs_.”

There was a mocking tone to Tomasz’s voice, something between amusement and jealousy. Peter hadn’t thought about it, but did Tomasz want the extra work? Should he have been asked? Why hadn’t Louis offered him the opportunity? Then it hit him: He couldn’t. It would have been too awkward to have Peter at the table and his lover in the kitchen.

Tomasz saw Peter’s puzzled look and laughed. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You live with boss. Small big shot, but still very big shot.”

Peter scowled. “Shut up about him being small. He’s one of the biggest men I know.”

“Really? Big? Where is he big?” Tomasz persisted. He was teasing, and didn’t know he’d crossed a line.

“Stop it, Tom, I mean it,” Peter said firmly. “LeBeau and I went through a lot together in the war. I’ve seen him do some very brave things. Very d-d-daring things that would give a lot of men sweaty palms and pr-probably heart failure.”

“What, in POW camp?” Tomasz said incredulously. “What he do, steal potato to make soup? Look, I spend war on streets of Paris, running car parts for resistance. _That_ was dangerous,” he said, sweeping a hand through the air.

“Car parts,” Peter said coolly.

“Yes. As mechanic, I know what is useful, what is not,” Tomasz said.

Peter let out a huff of air. Try raiding Luftwaffe headquarters. Sabotaging bridges. Interfering with the German high command on the eve of D-Day. Enduring a Gestapo interrogation on your knees, naked. He shuddered at the memory, then forced himself to breathe, the way Colonel Hogan had once taught him. In for a count of four; feel your lungs expand. Hold it, hold it, hold it, hold it. Release. Feel your stomach and lungs empty while you count to four. Do it again. And again.

Standing there in the park, he was suddenly miles away, and years away. He was a boy of seventeen.

_"You never get scared, Sir."_

_"Of course I do. We all do. We just have to trust each other and then we can do hard things."_

_"Really, Sir? What do you do when you're scared?"_

_"I prepare and I practice. And sometimes I have to talk over the voice in my head that's telling me a catastrophe is coming. I also try to breathe."_

_“Breathe? Everyone breathes, Sir, unless they're dead."_

“What are you doing?” Tomasz said, laughing nervously. “Piotr?” He was grasping Peter by the wrist.

The voice was like water splashing Peter in the face. He looked and shook his head from side to side, shaking away memories.

“Sorry. Sorry. I was thinking about the ww-wwwar,” he said.

“Ah,” Tomasz said, his face quizzical. “Are you alright? Should we sit somewhere?” His grip tightened.

Peter took a deep breath. “Yes. Yes, um. The café.”

Tomasz’s arm was around Peter’s shoulder, guiding him steadily as they walked three streets to a familiar café, one they visited a couple times a week. On the way, they paused to buy a copy of a sports newspaper from a tobacconist; then they took a table outside.

Peter sat down and tried to settled himself. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he hadn’t felt so off-balance in months. And that conversation with Colonel Hogan—it hadn’t even been about anything as difficult as a mission. It was just about getting up the nerve to have a conversation, one he’d rather avoid, with Carter.

Carter. He wondered how his mate was doing. He was at university now, studying something terribly complicated, he thought with a little burst of pride. He was bloody clever, that Andrew. Peter had squabbled with Carter all the time, and rarely went a day without feeling annoyed by him. But now he just missed him, missed knowing he was right there on the bunk below him. And he wondered what Carter would make of him if he knew… if he realized what he was getting up to with another lad.

Tomasz’s voice broke back into his consciousness. “Eat food, not just coffee,” he said.

“I’m not that hungry. I had a big meal last night,” Peter replied, feeling a chill again.

“That was last night. Eat now. I mean it,” Tomasz said. “You look shaky.” He laid a hand on Peter’s knee under the table and squeezed it, then rubbed his thigh. It wasn’t seductive; it was gentle and soothing, and Peter looked at him and smiled weakly. Tomasz cared for him; he knew it.

“I’ll order an omelette and some toast,” Peter said. “Just egg and cheese in it, though. Nothing fussy.”

“Good luck with that,” Tomasz said. “This is Paris.”

They placed their order, with Peter emphasizing simplicity to the waiter, and blaming a touchy stomach. It astonished him to realize how much French he could speak now, but two months in Paris had been an immersion. He hoped Colonel Hogan would be proud of him. And Kinch. He was sure he would be proud, because he’d learned French, too. With that thought, Peter was away again, quiet and distracted. Tomasz watched with concern, but let him be.

Coffee arrived, and Peter perked up. When food followed, he devoured it, not realizing how hungry he actually was.

He finally spoke up. “I meant to ask you, Tom, how was your dinner with your old chum? Was it someone from Poland?”

“It was good, and a very good friend,” Tomasz replied, carefully dodging part two of Peter’s question. He picked up the newspaper and squinted at it through his sunglasses. “Too much tennis news, never enough football,” he complained.

“The French Championships are coming mid-July,” Peter said, leaning over to look at the paper. He plunked a finger down on the photo of a pair of players. “These two are supposed to be quite good, Marcel Bernard and Yvon Petra.”

“They’re playing each other?” Tomasz asked.

“No, they’re doubles partners,” Peter replied.

“Ah, like us,” Tomasz said, poking Peter in the ribs.

“Stop it,” Peter said, but this time he was snickering. He was intrigued by the game, especially Petra, who was giant of a man. “He’s six foot five, you know,” he remarked.

Tomasz had no idea what that worked out to. He shrugged. Peter saw the problem.

“Ah, almost two hundred centimeters,” he said. “Very, very tall. He must have an excellent reach.” He pulled the newspaper closer. “It says here he was a prisoner of war, too,” he said quietly. He looked up and caught the look of concern in Tomasz’s eye.

Tomasz studied him, not sure where to start, but knowing he had somehow said something wrong.

“I’m sorry what I said,” he began. “About LeBeau. The war, it was not easy for you?”

“No. Not easy,” Peter replied.

“You try to escape many times?” Tomasz said.

“Yes,” Peter replied. After a long interval he repeated it. “Yes.”

Tomasz waited for him to continue. Eventually he did.

“We got caught many times, me and Monsieur LeBeau,” Peter said. It was true, to a point, but he couldn’t say more.

Tomasz looked concerned. “Were you ever hurt, Piotr?”

Peter laughed, a deep, harsh, scoffing laugh. Then he caught himself and apologized. Tomasz had no idea how ludicrous his question was. “Yes,” he said simply. “Yes, a few times. You get used to it.”

“But do you get over it?” Tomasz asked.

Peter’s cheeks twitched as he squinted, his shoulder barely rising in a shrug. “I don’t know, Tom. I hope so. It’s a bit soon to tell.”

**XXX**

They couldn’t return to the flat that afternoon; it was Louis’s day off, and Peter was trying to be respectful of his space. A light rain was starting to fall, and they went to a movie instead. Peter nixed “The Battle of the Rails”—he wanted to see it with Louis, if at all. Instead, they picked “Tarzan’s Secret Treasure.” It had everything—lions, elephants, restless natives, men greedy for gold, and Johnny Weissmuller in a loincloth. They were both quite keen on that sight.

There was hardly anyone in the cinema. They sat together in the back row, upper arms pressing together. When the lights went down, Peter felt Tomasz take his hand. Several minutes into the film, he looked over, and in the flicker of light from the film he could see Tomasz peering at him, then moving closer as if to whisper in his ear. With a flick of his eyes, Tomasz signaled that he was waiting for the screen to darken, and when it finally did, they turned slightly toward one another and let their lips touch. It lasted several luscious moments, but when the screen suddenly brightened, they pulled back in surprise. An usher was in the aisle closest to them. He approached in the empty row in front of theirs, and stopped to hiss at them.

“ _Arrête, ou je vous jette hors de ce cin_ _éma, sales pédés_ ,” he said in a low voice. He walked off, but a moment later, he was back in the aisle with a manager, pointing at them. The manager approached them, and spoke quietly, but by now the small audience in the theater was looking at them.

" _Nous vous surveillons tous les deux. Votre comportement pervers n'est pas autorisé ici_ ," he said sternly.

Tomasz was burning with anger. “Let’s go, Piotr,” he said, getting to his feet.

Peter was shaking inside with embarrassment and fear, but he didn’t let it show. He pulled Tomasz back down. He knew a thing or two about getting away without detection in difficult situations. “No,” Peter replied. “They’ll get bored with us and go away in a few minutes, and then we can leave through the side exit. There’s an alley, and we can go over the back fence. No one will see our faces. We’re not going through the bleeding lobby.”

Tomasz nodded as he sat back down. Fifteen minutes later, the usher vanished from his post, and Peter tapped Tomasz on the elbow. They left, as he suggested, without detection.

It was still drizzling slightly as they stepped into the alley and heard the big theater door slam behind them. They took off at a clip, Peter in the lead, and quickly climbed over the back fence, then ran to the right down the alley until they found themselves behind a night club. It was late afternoon; no one would be there for hours. They stopped in a doorway to escape the rain and breathe. Then, taking a moment to size up their surroundings, they dared to kiss.

The world did not end, so they kissed again. It was a kiss of need, of longing, of fear, as if they could be taken from one another forever at any moment. So they clung together and kissed as if they were drawing sustenance from one another. 

Peter was the first to break away. “I needed that,” he said leaning in to Tomasz’s hold, then pulling back again. “That was so close, Tommy,” he said. “They saw us. We nearly got hauled out on our arses.”

“I know,” Tomasz replied, rubbing his forehead. “We were careless.”

“And we’re doing it again, out here,” Peter said, looking down the alley and sounding miserable. He wanted to be in Tomasz’s arms so badly right now, but there was nowhere to go. Even in a dirty back alley, they had to look over their shoulders.

Tomasz’s sunglasses were dangling from his shirt, and Peter suddenly noticed the blue and purple bruises under Tomasz's right eye. “You have a black eye, mate,” he said, touching it tenderly. “Where did that come from?” 

Tomasz touched it too, then put on his sunglasses. “Just something that happened last night. Don’t worry about it.” He saw Peter opening his mouth, and added, “Really, it is nothing.” He laid a hand on his neck, petting him there. "You worry too much," he said, kissing his forehead.

Peter bit his lip, but backed off. They lit cigarettes and slouched into the doorway. They watched the drizzle strike the cobblestone alley as they smoked. A fag always calmed Peter down, and the dangerous arousal he was feeling from that kiss was settling down too.

He stubbed out his cigarette on the wet wall, and looked at Tomasz with regret. “We really should go, Tommy. And we can’t go back to the flat tonight, I’m sorry. Maybe we can… you know, tomorrow.”

“I hate to go a day without touching every part of you,” Tomasz said, rubbing his hands down Peter’s side. “Tomorrow in the park?”

“Yes,” Peter said, his hand going to Tomasz’s waist too. “Oh, no, wait,” Peter said, suddenly remembering his commitment to play football with Gaston. “It has to be a bit later. Can you meet me at the flat at, at one o’clock?”

“Hmm,” Tomasz said. “That should be just enough time.”

“Yes, it should,” Peter replied, sticking his hands into his pockets to tame a growing sensation.

“Alright then, I’ll see you,” Tomasz said. He kissed Peter again, not once, but twice. He looked soulfully into his eyes, and Peter saw the pain he felt reflecting back at him.

 _This is hard. A girl would be easier_ , he told himself. _Why do I have to want him so much?_

He lit another cigarette and watched as Tomasz sauntered off, his long limbs ambling down the alley in one direction. He stayed until he was out of sight, then lingered on a bit long until the rain showed signs of dissipating. Then he headed off in the opposite direction, toward home.

As he walked, Peter realized he hadn’t mentioned anything to Tom about Suzanne, and he was seeing her on Wednesday. The funny thing was, Tomasz knew he’d taken Suzanne to the dinner, but he hadn’t even asked about her.

Suddenly he wondered if Tomasz might get the idea that he didn’t want to be with him anymore. No, he couldn’t think about that right now. He abandoned that thought on a cobblestone sidewalk in the third arrondissement as he walked back to the flat, wondering about Tomasz running car parts in the war and wondering about that black eye.

**XXX**

“Louis,” Peter said as he walked into the kitchen. “I was hoping you’d still be here.”

“Where else would I be? Sit, relax,” Louis said. “Oh, you’re damp.”

“I’m alright,” Peter shrugged. He walked up to Louis and draped on arm around him, then impulsively kissed his cheek. Something was bubbling on the stove and it smelled good. 

Louis laughed at the sudden display of affection. He didn’t look up as he stirred the stew. “It’s your favorite, _boeuf bourguignon_ ,” he said. “It’s ready now if you want it. Go change clothes and I’ll have it ready for you, _hein_?”

Louis was gratified by the bright smile that announcement provoked. Not so long ago, Pierre was a complicated, extremely anxious eater. He’d been traumatized by food, and he couldn’t bear to have ingredients touching, and couldn’t trust any food he was unfamiliar with. Getting him to eat was like feeding a very fussy four-year-old, and it was harrowing at times. But somehow Louis has pushed through the aversions and helped Pierre eat more confidently. Now, nearly three years after that last burst of extremely anxious eating had been extinguished, Pierre actually seemed to enjoy food. He watched as Peter wandered off, then got out cutlery, glasses, and napkins, sliced up some bread, and quickly set the table for the two of them.

Peter returned, his hair mussy from an encounter with a towel, and wearing a shirt with a pullover. _He must have taken a chill_ , Louis noted. They sat down at the table like two comfortable old companions and Louis poured the wine.

“I figured out a few things we need for your sisters’ visit, and Danielle and I removed some things from the small bedroom,” Louis said amiably.

Peter felt instant guilt. They were his sisters. He should have asked Louis how he could help get the flat ready for them.

“Sorry, Louis. Is there anything else we need to do? I could make some pillowcases to make their room a bit more feminine.” The room he slept in had white bedding, but the pillows and upholstery were navy blue, with green accents.

“Can you make throw pillows?” Louis asked.

“Of course I can,” Peter replied. “Piece of pie,” he joked.

Louis knew his cues. “Cake, Pierre, it’s ‘piece of cake,’” he replied with a grin.

Peter snickered, but then his face fell. “I was thinking about Carter today. He must be doing very well at university.”

“I think he’s off for the summer,” Louis said. “His last letter mentioned a visit to his grandfather’s farm.”

“Working hard, then, as always. That’s our Andrew,’ Peter said. “Louis, do, do, do you think he’d like Tomasz?”

Louis knew instinctively where this was going. “Why not? Carter is very friendly, Pierre,” he said. “People have to give Carter a reason _not_ to like them.”

“Do you think, you know, the idea of boys k-k-kissing would enough of a reason for him to, to not like Tomasz?”

 _Or not like you?_ Louis thought. _That’s what the question is, isn’t it?_ He thought about where to start, and wished Henri was there. “I think it would be unfamiliar to him. But I think he would try to understand, Pierre,” Louis said gently. “You are probably his best friend.”

“What about Kinch? And, and, and the Colonel? If I got caught kissing a boy, what, what, what would they think?” Peter asked.

Louis’s radar went up. “Pierre, did you and Tomasz get caught kissing somewhere?”

Peter shifted in his seat, and Louis had the answer from the crestfallen look on his face. Yes, he definitely wished Henri would suddenly breeze into the flat. But it wasn’t going to happen. He waited for Peter to reply, knowing these words might take a while. He was visibly stuck, trying to start the first sound but unable to climb that barrier.

“Nearly,” Peter admitted, then taking a much-needed breath. “In the cinema. They warned us and we had to sl-sl-sl…sl-sl-sl-sl-sl...” _Nope, slip was not happening_ , he told himself as he bit his lip painfully hard. He tasted copper, but re-routed. _‘Go,’ that might work_ , he thought. “G-g-g-g-g-g, um, lllleave through the side door.”

“I’m glad you got away safely,” Louis said. “I’ve told you, though, you need to be careful. Wipe your mouth.”

“I know, we got careless,” Peter said miserably, dabbing away dots of blood. “It was a bit scary.” Louis could hear the crackle in his voice, and could also see the resolve to hide it. “But I know how to get out of a tight situation. Tom wanted to barge out of the cinema, b-b-but I told him we shouldn’t make a scene, and I got us out quietly.”

Louis laid a hand on Peter’s arm. “Oh, Pierre,” he said. “Young lovers always kiss in cinemas. I hate to say it, but you can’t. Not even in Paris, and certainly not in London. You can’t.”

Peter squeezed his eyes tightly, fighting back emotion. “I know,” he said. “I j-j-just needed a kiss, Louis. I needed him.”

Louis nodded. Of course, he understood need. He could see Peter had more to say, but his stutter had kicked in, blocking his tongue.

“I um, I um, I um,” Peter was saying. He was stuck, and the sound was coming out like a machine gun going rat-a-tat-tat, as if he couldn’t release the trigger and make it stop. For the first time in a long time, he could feel himself actually choking on words. Louis shifted his chair closer and wrapped an arm around him.

“Take your time,” he whispered. Peter leaned into this shoulder and finally went silent. He stayed there for a long minute, then sat up straight and spoke.

“N-n-no matter what I did today, my m-m-mind kept going back to the wwwar,” Peter finally said. He gasped and suddenly looked up blurted out his words fast. “Louis, have you told mmmme everything that ever happened to you in the w-war?”

Louis’s warm brown eyes filled with sorrow. “Nearly everything, I think,” he said. He studied his friend. “Have you told **me** everything, Pierre?”

Peter nodded hesitantly. “Nearly everything,” he replied with a tight smile. He straightened his back and picked up his spoon. “The _boeuf bourguignon_ is delicious, mate,” he added.

 _End of discussion_ , Louis thought. _And there is something he is not telling me_.

“Pierre, why don’t we stay up late tonight and play cards? Danielle will come over, and I’ll see if Henri and Jean-Claude can come.”

“Could it just be us, Louis?” Peter asked as he took a bite of his stew.

Louis cupped his cheek, patted it, and smile. “Of course, _mon fr_ _érot_. Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: The usher says “Stop it or I’ll throw you out of the cinema, you filthy queers.” Then the manager piles on by saying “We’re watching you two. Your perverted behavior is not permitted in here.” These poor boys are quaking inside.
> 
> The flashback conversation with Hogan is from chapter 7 of my story "Getting to Know You." It was a somewhat innocuous situation-- Hogan coaching Newkirk on how to apologize to Carter for lashing out at him-- but it made a lasting impression. There are also references to another story in my headcanon, "Fussy."


	18. Vendant la Mèche (Spilling the Beans)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating notice: This story contains a scene of Peter in Gestapo custody which includes a brief scene of physical abuse with subtle but significant psychological and sexual elements.

**I want to acknowledge the author[LogicGunn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicGunn/pseuds/LogicGunn), whose story "[Noncompliance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22939615)" in the Stargate Atlantis fandom provided direct inspiration for a key scene. See end notes for more detail, but suffice it to say her work is a great model of how to show the psychological depth and motivations of your characters.**

It was late, and tomorrow was a working day, but Louis and Peter were sprawled on the floor in the living room, playing a two-handed game of _belote découverte_ , eating cheese and crackers, and drinking red wine. Periodically Cosette rubbed against one of them and came perilously close to tipping over a glass. Peter distracted her with a few morsels of cheese and she finally settled on his lap as he sat with legs crisscrossed, leaning into the sofa. Louis, on his stomach with his elbows propped on a pillow, was explaining the rules. Peter was pretty sure he was making them up, but he hardly cared.

The wine was going down very, very nicely. _Drinking always helps, doesn’t it?_ Peter thought. The day had been oddly worrisome, for no good reason at all, really, but now he could feel his anxiety ebbing and his tongue loosening. And a tongue as prone to tripping and stumbling as Peter’s needed a break once in a while. He’d had two drinks and was feeling a pleasant buzz. Three would yielded near fluency, and he could hold it right there with sips, nothing excessive at all. Yes, he would have a throbbing headache the next day, but that seemed to be a fair tradeoff. So did one or two days of much worse stammering, which always followed a binge.

They started a new hand. Peter wanted to switch to poker. Louis wasn’t having it.

“Shut up and play. It’s the French national game; it’s part of your education here,” Louis said firmly, with a superior smirk.

“It’s a horrid game,” Peter replied.

“It’s a much better game with _two_ people,” Louis allowed, patting Peter drunkenly on the leg.

“We _are_ two people,” Peter pointed out.

It was not a good sign that Louis was looking at the ceiling and counting on his fingers. “I mean two _mor_ e people. Four people,” he corrected himself.

“Fine,” Peter said petulantly. “So how does this work? Four knaves is the best trick? Then four nines?”

“Yes,” Louis replied. “I dealt, so you choose one of your face-up cards, and use it to start the first trick.” They played quietly and intently until all sixteen tricks had been played.

“I won!” Peter crowed. “Mark it down on your little scorecard, mate.”  
  
“You just learned the game. It’s ridiculous that you won,” Louis said, shaking his head and tallying the score as instructed. “How does that keep happening?”

“Born lucky,” Peter replied.

“Fine. We can play poker now. I refuse to let an Englishman beat me at _belote_ ,” Louis said.

Peter dealt out a hand, just like he had a million times in Stalag 13, in Barracks Two, at its rickety, splintery old table. Suddenly he could feel the hard bench beneath him, Carter’s leg pressed up against his, the squeaking sound from somebody shifting on a lumpy bunk. He could smell sweat and soap and aftershave and earth and rain… above all, a clear, fresh rain. Rain. That was Colonel Hogan, and he smiled at the memory.

It was strange, he thought as he pulled himself back to Louis’s living room floor in Paris, how he always felt secure there. In the barracks, at least, with his mates around him. Anywhere with his mates around him.

“Do you ever miss it, Louis?” Peter asked. He scratched Cosette’s fur as she lay sleeping in his lap. Her softness was so soothing.

“Miss what?” Louis replied.

Peter rolled his eyes. “The war. The camp. Our mates. The work we all did.”

“It was important work,” Louis said with a nod. “I miss our friends. I even miss Schultzie. I miss our sense of purpose. But freedom and victory are better. Why, do you miss it?”

“I felt I belonged there, you know? You always had my back.”

Ah. Louis saw where this was heading. Reassurance time.

“I still have your back, Pierre. That will never change,” Louis said adamantly.

“I know that,” Peter replied. “I know it’s stupid to miss a war and a bleeding prison camp. We won the bleeding war, and that’s what matters. But,” he said, hesitating for a moment to find his thoughts. “But I miss being part of something really big. Using the skills I have for good, you know?”

“Do you miss picking locks and pockets?” Louis said, looking worried all of a sudden.

“Sometimes,” Peter said, dipping his head in embarrassment. “I know it’s wrong, of course, and I know I don’t have to do that sort of thing any longer. It’s just… well, I knew who I was, didn’t I? I was Corporal Newkirk, a useful scoundrel, and I worked with my best mates and I answered to Colonel Hogan.”

LeBeau stood and came over to where Peter was sitting and slid down beside him. He linked his arm through Peter’s. “And home was London. And _ta Maman_ _et ta famille et ta maison_ were all there,” Louis said. He leaned in and patted him on the chest. “But you’re here now, and your friends are all going to help you build a new life. I know it’s a big change, but you are strong.”

It was as if it was August all over again; they’d had this conversation repeatedly when they were together in London last summer at Colonel Hogan’s townhouse, and Louis knew his lines cold. It was like telling a child the story of The Three Bears at bedtime; there was no such thing as too many repetitions.

“Yes,” Peter replied. He pursed his lips fiercely, fought back a couple of gulps, and then looked up at Louis. “Tomasz was telling me he ran car parts for the Resistance during the war. And he pretty clearly thought we sat on our arses.”

“People will think that, but we know better,” Louis said. “Hmm?” He clutched Peter’s clenched fist and gave it a firm shake. “We know the truth.”

“If they understood what we did, they’d shut up. If they understood about the Gestapo, they’d shut up,” Peter said, his voice starting to shake.

LeBeau shook too as the shadow of an old fear tingled every nerve. He’d been locked up, alone, sick, and desperate, many times. He’d been strung up by his thumbs—not for long, but it didn’t have to be for long to mark his mind. He’d been held in a cell so narrow that he could neither sit nor stand. He wasn’t claustrophobic before he got to Germany, he reminded himself. That happened there, thanks to the filthy _Boch_ e. Now he wouldn’t ride in an elevator. Maybe he would when he got old, but not unless he had to, he had decided.

“We went through awful things,” Louis said, as they sat on the floor, tangled in each other’s arms. “We got through them all, and we did it together.”

“We did,” Peter said as he laid his cheek on top of Louis’s head. “Every single time. No one could stop us.”

Cosette, who hadn’t budged from Peter’s lap in an hour, suddenly stood up to stretch and dug her claws into his thigh. “Oi!” he yelled. “No one could stop us, except this old girl!” He picked her up and placed her firmly on the floor, where she promptly sprawled out and yawned.

“Cheeky,” he said with a grin as he leaned over to pet her while simultaneously rubbing the punctures she’d left.

 _Leave it to that cat to lift his spirits_ , Louis thought. He’d never thought much of cats—he was a dog man, himself—but they were useful, and moreover Peter was completely captivated by them, especially this one. Louis respected that feline as a sort of equal; Peter hadn’t given his devotion to many creatures of any species, human or otherwise.

“We should put these things out of our mind for now and play the game,” Louis said, patting Peter’s arm and getting to his feet.

Peter looked up at him with a bit of cheek of his own.

“You came over here to peek at my cards, didn’t you? You little cheat,” he said.

Louis swatted him on the head as he stood up. “Yes, that was the plan all along. I learned to cheat from the best.”

They laughed and went back to their game. 

**XXX**

It was midnight when they gathered up the wine bottles and glasses, put away the cards and centimes, and staggered down the hallway to their bedrooms. “Do you have to go anywhere in the morning?” Peter asked.

“ _Les Halles_ ,” Louis groaned. “I’ll come back here afterwards. What about you?”

“I’m supposed to play football with Gaston and some of the waiters around ten,” Peter said. “Then I’m meeting Tomasz at one o’clock. Here, if that’s alright.”

“It’s fine. I’ll be gone. Who is Gaston?”

“The new _commis_ chef,” Peter said.

“Ah! The one with the blond hair in his eyes? He looks like…”

“Carter, I know,” Peter laughed. “Acts a bit like him too. Like a puppy dog, bouncing about on paws that are too big for his body and yapping when he should be quiet.” He yawned. “I need sleep.”

“Drink two glasses of water and take two aspirin,” Louis commanded. “Get into bed; I’ll bring it.”

Peter was brushing his teeth when Louis returned. He came into his bedroom and slid under the covers as Louis poured water into two glasses from a large carafe.

“ _Salut_ ,” Louis said, clinking glasses and popping two aspirin down his throat to stave off a hangover and gesturing that Peter should do the same. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched as Cosette strolled in and took her place in the center of the mattress. Louis rolled his eyes as Peter shifted toward the edge to make room for her.

“ _Tu es mené par le bout du nez, mon frère_ ,” Louis remarked.

Peter’s hand shot to his face. “What? What’s wrong with my nose?”

“She is leading you by the tip of your nose,” Louis translated with a twinkle in his eye. “You’re a henpecked husband.”

“Well, if you had a girl like Cosette, you would be led, too, and you’d be glad of it,” Peter smirked. “Come here, darling,” he cooed at her. She turned her head away and yawned. “Spurned again by a fickle female,” Peter said, shaking his head woefully. “No wonder I’ve switched teams.”

“You are _impossible_ ,” Louis laughed. “Go to sleep.” He leaned over and kissed Peter on the forehead. Peter grabbed him by the arm.

“No, Louis, stay, would you mate? Just for a little while?” His eyes were pleading and serious.

Louis knew that look. He pursed his lips and nodded slightly. “Of course, _mon pote_. Let me change into _pyjamas_ and I’ll come right back.”

He returned five minutes later, brushed and washed and pyjama-clad, and carrying a pillow and blanket. He plopped down on the bed next to Peter, knowing that in a moment he would settle on the crook of his arm. Louis had held Pierre just this way so many times that it felt completely comfortable, even though Pierre was taller and heavier than he was, and would end up crushing his arm. Even that was alright; he knew how to push him off once he was asleep. He’d done that a million times, too, though it had been many months since the last time in London. He was needier then.

“Are you tired?” Louis asked as Peter settled in.

“Mmm. Yes,” Peter replied. “Louis?”

“Yes?”

“If Danielle and Tomasz catch us, we’re dead.”

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Louis said, his stomach shaking with laughter. “You are really the silliest person I know.”

“And if Madame Bastian walks in… ‘Eeeeeek!’” He emitted a shrill, shrieking sound.

“Shut up!” Louis laughed.

“Or, God forbid, Madame Faucher… we’re going to the hangman, mate.”

“We don’t have the hangman in France. That’s only you British brutes. We have the guillotine.”

“Ugh. Very messy business, that,” Peter said.

“Cleaner than you would imagine. Look, do you need me here for some reason, or do you just want to make jokes all night? Because I have my own bed right next door.”

“Make jokes all night,” Peter said mischievously. But there was a shake in his voice. He went silent, and Louis could feel him tremble. He sniffled and buried his head deep into Louis’s side.

“ _Chut, chut, chut_ ,” Louis said softly. “Tell me.”

Peter breathed in and out very hard several times before he spoke. Inhale, count to four. Hold for four; exhale, four. Repeat. Again. Again.

When he finally spoke, his words were soft. “Did they ever take all your clothes, Louis?” There was no question who “they” were.

“My shirt and my shoes,” Louis said. “It’s how they break you. It was cold in the cell. My feet were freezing.” He paused. “Tell me, Peter.”

Peter drew in a deep breath. Yes, that was his name. His English name. His real name. His proper name. That was who he was. Peter.

Newkirk, Peter.

Newkirk, Peter, Corporal.

Newkirk, Peter, Corporal, RAF.

Newkirk, Peter, Corporal, RAF, service number 648041.

He heard his own voice speaking as if it was miles away. “They took my blouse. My shirt. My shoes. My socks,” he said. “Then my belt. My trousers. Then everything else.”

Louis pulled him closer.

“’On your knees,’ they said. ‘Now spread ‘em. Wider. Wider than that.’ I could feel myself shaking,” Peter said. “Not because I was scared, even though I was, but because I was so bloody cold.”

“You were so cold,” Louis echoed. “Freezing cold.”

“Shaking all over. The pebbles on the floor digging into my knees. A gust of wind from the corridor making my teeth chatter. Terrified that they would t-touch me.”

"Did they touch you?" Louis asked. He was afraid of the answer.

Peter inhaled deeply, then let it all out. "No. Not that time."

 _Mon Dieu, there was another time?_ Louis asked himself. "When did this happen? Was it before…?"

"Yes, this was before… before all the Americans. The other time was after Colonel Hogan came. Right before he figured out my age."

"What happened?" Louis asked in a low voice.

Peter exhaled and sat up, repositioning himself next to Louis, who kept an arm around his waist. He pulled the cat into his lap and stroked her. He was shaking his head slightly, nibbling on his lip, trying to find the words.

"I keep telling myself it could have been worse," Peter said softly. “It was that mission where I got nicked after I passed the film off you and the Colonel, where our agents in Mainz had to help me get back.”

 _The one where you made yourself the sacrificial lamb so we could get away_ , Louis thought. “I remember,” he said.

**XXX**

_The mission had gone horribly wrong, and Peter found himself alone, cornered, and hauled off to Gestapo headquarters. Six hours of relentless questioning had not broken him. Now he was shirtless, hands tied behind his back, on his knees in a damp cell. The water he'd vomited up after they'd held his head down in a tub was pooled all around him, and it was working its way up his trousers, saturating the knees, spreading down his legs and up his thighs. He'd asked to relieve himself, and they'd laughed, and the growing patch in the front of his trousers from when he just couldn't hold it any longer had turned from warm to cold. His legs were trembling from the position they'd forced him into._

_Not scared, not scared, not scared, he told himself. They'll come to get me._

_And they did come, but it was the wrong "they." They entered the cell, two of them, with a gag for his mouth, which they tied so tightly that his eyes watered._ Well, what was a little more water _, he told himself. They yanked his arms back tighter so that his head was angled up, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't exactly see them now, but he sensed motion and saw shadows shift before he felt a rough hand under each bare arm, hauling him to his feet._

_Not scared, not scared, not scared, he chanted in his mind. They'll come to get me._

_They dragged him, squirming and fighting, to another cell, and it was there that they pushed him over a table and disrobed him in one swift motion. "Filthy Engländer," the tall one said, and the other one laughed and kicked him in the back of the knee, knocking him to the ground._

_"Up! Up!" the tall one shouted. He grabbed him by the hair to haul him across the table, his bottom in the air._

_Peter had been held over a birching pony and caned many times as a schoolboy, but he hadn't had the cane applied in quite this way, nor had the cane been quite as rigid, quite as agonizing. They administered a flog, then a poke. A flog, then a prod. A flog, then a threatened invasion with the small end of the cane, and then with the larger end. They were toying with him now, and enjoying watching him squirm. He never knew when the next lash or poke was coming, and the suspense was terrifying. It was almost a relief when they simply thrashed him hard ten times in a row._

_The last frenzied stroke was still pulsing and stinging when the tall one ran his hands down Peter’s bare back, over the torn skin of his buttocks, inching lower, then squeezing his testicles before jamming two fingers in him suddenly and sharply, just deep enough to remind Peter who was boss. He felt the swirling dizziness and agony of that squeeze, the slice of a ragged fingernail, a sudden, sickening sensation of assault, the humiliation of invasion. The insertion was brief; the pain was nauseating. The tall one leaned into him, pressing, and Peter could feel that he unmistakably meant business. He felt the man's hot breath in his ear as he rubbed against him and whispered, "Next time, we'll see how well you can handle something bigger."_

_They never came. Papa Bear was holed up in camp, under constant surveillance. But he managed to get word out, and Night Sky and Black Shadow from the Mainz Underground made it look good. They had papers for his release. By orders of the Luftwaffe prisons command, he was to be returned to Stalag 13 and dealt with properly there. Where were his clothes? Where was a blanket? He couldn't possibly leave in this appalling condition._

_They bundled him, shivering and half naked, into a stolen staff car and kept him hidden for two nights until he could be safely returned to camp. By then, his uniform was clean and mended, and his game face was firmly affixed. Nothing was wrong. Nothing at all._

_They never came, and it was probably for the best, he told himself as he smiled bravely at all his mates, got a warm caress on the back from the Guv himself, played a few games of gin, chain-smoked half a pack of cigarettes, and finally settled into his lumpy bunk for the night. He didn’t need anyone to see him like that. He fell asleep biting back tears._

_Not scared. Not scared. Not scared._

**XXX**

"You never told me. Why didn't you tell me? Did Colonel Hogan know?" Louis asked urgently.

Peter was shaking his head no, but no words were coming out.

“You ran off so they would chase you and not us,” Louis said softly. “We were worried, but when we got word from Mainz, we knew you were safe… Pierre, we didn’t know.”

"I couldn't tell any of you. I was too ashamed," Peter said. He buried his face in Louis’s neck and tried not to tremble. Still, Louis could feel tears soaking his pajama top. He didn't budge; he just held on tighter as his own tears burned his cheeks.

"I wasn’t scared, Louis, not the whole time,” Peter whispered. “I just wanted to get back to me mates.”

“You’re always brave. Sometimes too brave,” Louis murmured.

“I’m not brave now,” Peter gulped. “Please don't go."

"I'm not going anywhere," Louis said holding his Pierre with a ferocious expression on his face, and it seemed his glare alone could destroy anyone who laid a harmful hand on him. "I'm right beside you, _mon frérot_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Louis acknowledges that Peter misses his mother, his family, his home. (Ta Maman, ta famille, ta maison.) Other words that could be read as English but are pronounced in the French way are italicized; so are most internal thoughts.
> 
> The abuse described in this chapter was foreshadowed in Chapter 37 of "A Minor Problem," Chapter 8 of "Peter and Anja" and Chapter 10 of this story. I must thank Valashu for working through this important scene so meticulously with me. We went back and forth at great length (starting months ago) over how this scene would play, because it is so important to Peter's development. I am lucky to have such a great collaborator!
> 
> Also, I want to acknowledge the author LogicGunn, whose story "Noncompliance" in the Stargate Atlantis fandom provided direct inspiration for this scene. As she noted in an exchange with me, "Keeping a violation impactful but not overly graphic is hard." It truly is, but she offered a great model. I highly, highly recommend her work!


	19. Collant (Clingy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an extremely LONG chapter -- sorry about that. Comments are greatly appreciated!

It was a rough night. Peter's stomach was touchy under the best of circumstances, and drinking too much wine did not help. Somewhere around 3 o’clock in the morning, Louis stood over him as he emptied his gut into a waste bin. Then Louis cleaned up the mess, pressed a cold washcloth to Peter’s face, and collapsed back into bed next to him.

It was still early on Tuesday when Peter woke again—overconsumption did that too, breaking up a sound sleep. He noticed the arm draped over him as his eyes flickered open, felt the breath on his neck, and sank into the warmth. But as he closed his eyes again, a jackhammer banged inside his skull. He opened them with a start, got to his feet fast, and reacquainted himself with the trash bin.

That woke Louis up. He sat on the edge of the bed, head in hand, watching wearily as Peter threw up. "Are you alright now?" he asked as the retching slowed.

"Think so," Peter replied. "We drank too much."

"We certainly did. What time is it?" Louis asked, flopping back down as Peter returned to the bed.

Peter picked up his watch from the nightstand. "It's 5:52," he said. He sank onto the mattress and rolled on his side, facing Louis. _Blimey, his beard is heavy_ , he thought. Louis sometimes shaved late in the day, but he’d obviously skipped it yesterday.

"I should probably just get up and get to Les Halles,” Louis groaned. “The first day of the working week is when I order the bread deliveries and whatever the bakers are going to need this week. The sooner I start, the quicker it will be, and the sooner I can get back to bed for a couple of hours." He didn’t show any signs of moving, though.

"I'll go with you," Peter said.

"You should sleep longer. And please don't talk to me. Your breath stinks," LeBeau said. He shifted away from his friend’s face.

"And yours doesn't? We were a couple of winos last night," Peter replied. "I want to go, Louis. I can learn a bit more about what you do." He wasn't prepared to say it, but he felt an intense need to keep Louis in sight. He needed his _grand fr_ _ère_ 's presence, his shelter and warmth, after baring his soul last night, and he supposed —or hoped, anyway—that Louis needed him close by, too.

Louis was sitting up on the edge of the bed now. "Alright," he said. "Come with me. Maybe we'll be able to eat something once we've been up for a while. Julien should be there around 6:30."

"Julien?" Peter asked. "Oh…"

"You like him, don't you?" Louis said as he stood in the doorway on his way to the bathroom to shave. "You didn't have any problems talking to him."

"No, he's nice. I was j-just thinking… I don't know… after everything we discussed last night… I j-j-just want you…" He stopped, unwilling—unable—to reveal what he was really thinking.

 _To myself._ Louis could fill in the words; he knew Pierre better than Pierre knew himself. He was going to have a shadow for the next couple of days, until the anxiety died down. It was nothing new; Pierre had glued himself to his side every time they were separated for more than a few hours at Stalag 13. Louis made a command decision.

"I think you should stick with me today, Pierre," Louis said, stroking his stubbly chin as he spoke. "Gaston could use some _l_ _égumier_ training with Pascal, and I'd like you to work with me on an English-language version of the menu for July. Plus, Pascal had an idea for featuring strawberries on the menu before the end of the growing season. He said you could show me how you made them into rosettes."

"Everyone might think it's odd that I'm with you all d-day, though," Peter said hesitantly. "Teacher's p-p-p-pet, you know." Tomasz had teased him for his closeness to Louis; Gaston had been in awe. Both reactions amounted to people overtly paying attention to Peter, and he never liked that.

"People will think what they want, but you are _mon fr_ _ère_. And you're leaving me again in a few weeks, and I want more time with you. So I'd like you to work with me for a day or two," Louis said decisively.

It was an order, then, Peter thought. That made things much easier. He smiled and nodded in relief. He couldn't argue with the boss, and he wanted more time together too.

"Good, then it's settled. You’re coming with me. I have to shave first," Louis said.

"Shaving's not going to work," Peter shouted as he disappeared. "You're going to need a blowtorch for that beard." He sank back onto the bed with a mischievous grin, hoping to catch a few more winks, when Louis shouted back.

"We have two bathrooms, you know," he said. "Take your shaving kit and get ready. No loafing around."

Even through a banger of a headache, Peter managed to smile as he got back onto his feet, feeling wobbly but reasonably alert as went toward his dresser. "Righto, Monsieur LeBeau," he called back. "I'll be ready in a tic."

Cosette, perched on the dresser, lifted her head with mild curiosity as Peter gathered his things from the top drawer, stood and arched her back, then stepped into the drawer to curl up on his underwear.

**XXX**

It was the very end of June, but at 6:15 in the morning, it was chilly and damp as Louis and Peter walked along the arcade on the Rue de Rivoli to the wholesale market. Morning had just broken twenty minutes earlier, and the sky was dappled with mares’ tails and mackerel scales, signaling a rainy afternoon ahead.

As the market came in sight, Peter started crossing a street toward it, but Louis grabbed his shoulder and steered him forward. “I thought we were going to Les Halles,” Peter said.

“We are, but today we are going to _Maison Mora_ , over there,” Louis replied, signaling toward a building just outside the market proper. “The premier shop for bakers. Ah, there’s Julien,” he said, picking up his pace.

“A shop? Are they open this early?” Peter asked.

“Only for the trade,” Louis replied. He greeted Julien in rapid-fire French, and Peter, still groggy from the previous night’s misadventures, missed most of it.

“ _Bon matin, Monsieur LeBeau, et Pierre aussi_ ,” Julien said.

“ _Monsieur Gascoigne_ ,” Peter replied with slight bow, showing the deference due to a member of the kitchen brigade who ranked above him. Julien responded with a bright smile and a nod of the head, as if he was embarrassed to have his position acknowledged. He’d barely been on the job a week.

They bundled into the shop, and went straight to the wholesale food section. They ticked through their lists.

“Vegetable fat… pistachios… baking powder… almond paste…” Louis read off from a small paper in his hand.

“Castor sugar… granulated sugar… powdered sugar… brown sugar…” Julien continued.

“Why so many sugars?” Peter asked. “It’s all nearly the same, isn’t it?”

Louis and Julien looked at him in shock. “Oh, no, no, each sugar is unique,” Louis replied. “Granulated sugar gives the baked goods crispness and surface cracking, which can be very desirable,” he said.

“Crystallization,” Julien added, as if that explained everything. It was the sort of thing Carter would have said.

“Oh,” Peter replied, looking bewildered.

“ _Oui_ , and for a lighter, more tender cake, we need a very fine sugar—that’s the castor sugar,” Louis explained. “The powdered sugar, well, that’s for dusting, icing, frosting and other decorating because it dissolves in liquid and then you can spread it.”

“Oh,” Peter continued. “So you can’t j-just swap it for regular sugar?”

“No, no,” Julien said. “You can use powdered sugar in some cakes and cookies for a more dense texture. But it behaves differently when you mix it… it aerates less in batters and doughs.”

“Oh,” Peter said. _Aerates?_ Blimey, he was in over his head now.

“It’s all chemistry, you see,” Julien continued earnestly as he watched LeBeau reviewing the purchase order. “The Maillard reaction—it’s the chemical reaction between amino acids and reducing sugars that gives browned food its distinctive flavor. Seared steaks, breads, toasted marshmallows… Oh, dear, it’s overwhelming isn’t it?

“A bit,” Peter admitted. And, he thought, Julien sounded annoyingly like Andrew right now.

“Julien sounds exactly as you do when you start talking about fabrics and stitches and seams, Pierre,” Louis said with his tongue in his cheek. “Julien, I’ve seen him tear out a hand-sewn lining of a suit jacket and start it over again because the patterns were mismatched by that much,” he said, squeezing his nails of his thumb and index finger together. “He is a perfectionist.”

“You’re a gentlemen’s tailor?” Julien said with surprise. “Working in a kitchen?”

“Yes,” Peter said, not quite sure what to make of that question. He had a quizzical, confused look on his face, and Julien’s bright-eyed, amused look was not helping.

“He made the suit he wore to dinner,” Louis commented as he affixed his signature to the order. “There,” he said. “Let’s place the bread order. Then breakfast? It’s on me, Julien.”

Peter gulped. Julien was giving him a funny look.

“You made that? Really? It was very chic—the colors were so interesting,” Julien said.

Julien was genuinely impressed—Louis could see that—but all Peter noticed was the growing sense that he was going to be expected to converse fluently and answer questions, in French no less. He could feel his anxiety rising; he had hidden his stammer pretty well at dinner the other night, but it was bound to come out now, and then another person would know how much he struggled with his words. And it would be someone who worked with him and might talk about him. Great.

So he bit his lip and nodded and did not elaborate. Julien got the message that the young Englishman was a bit reserved, maybe even shy.

**XXX**

Louis and Julien talked restaurant business over breakfast while Peter poked at an omelette and nibbled on bread and butter. Peter’s mind was elsewhere as they discussed the most pressing issues confronting the _p_ _âtisserie_ station.

 _“There are so many possible presentations of mousse au chocolat_ ,” Louis was musing out loud. But Peter’s mind was on his football game with Gaston. He wanted to play, but hoped he could get by without speaking too much.

 _“July is a bit warm for_ baba au rhum _, don’t you think? I’m inclined to keep hot rum off the menu until October at the soonest_.” That was Julien. Peter looked up and nodded intelligently as he spoke, but his mind wandered to Tomasz. Would he mind that Peter had played football without him? They were meeting at the flat at one o’clock. What should he say?

 _“Some restaurants are actually removing the cherry pits from their_ clafoutis aux cerises _,” Louis said, shaking his head in disapproval._

_“That’s awful. You’d lose that intense cherry flavor and scent, and the juice would leak,” Julien said, looking horrified. “You’d end up with pink pastry.”_

_Blimey, Frenchmen really did talk about food as if it was life itself._ Peter thought. He wondered if Louis was right—maybe the English were born half the normal taste buds, and the wrong half at that. And he wondered what Nora would be able to eat when she arrived in Paris at the weekend. He would have to chat with Louis to ensure he understood her condition.

He was so deep in thought that he was startled when he realized Louis and Julien were both looking at him and smiling, apparently expecting a response to something he hadn’t heard them say.

“Pierre? You can show both of us later, alright? And Pascal, of course,” Louis was saying.

“Sh-show you what?” Peter asked.

“Your strawberry rosettes,” Julien said. “Pascal did show me the first one, but I’m wondering how many we’ll need and how quickly you can cut them.”

“Fffffor what?”

“For the new dessert,” Louis said with a grin. “You and Julien can sort it out tonight.”

“I have in mind a very buttery tart, then a thin layer of almond filling, crème fraiche with a tinge of pink from strawberry preserves, and then your rosettes, with a few almond slices,” Julien said. “It needs a name,” he added, absently tugging a lock of his dark brown hair at the temple.

“It’s an ordinary almond and str-strawberry tart, then?” Peter couldn’t keep the skepticism out of his voice. It didn’t sound terribly original.

“It won’t taste a bit ordinary,” Julien said with a confident wave. “Not when I’m done with it.”

“Oh,” Peter said. He never knew quite what to say to Julien, so he left it at that.

“Well, it’s time we got back,” Louis said, clapping his hands to his thighs, then signaling the waiter for the check. He checked his watch. “It’s nearly nine, and I’d like to be at the restaurant by eleven today,” he said.

“I’ve got fffootball at ten,” Peter said softly. He wanted to ask Louis to come watch, but felt awkward raising the question with Julien there.

“Football?” Julien perked up. “Where do you play?”

“Ah, ah, with, with a group of lads from the restaurant, b-b-b-b-b…” Peter began. Bloody hell, stuck again. His lips did not want to move past that sound, and was making a bubbling noise like a fish. Julien, to his surprise, kept looking at him expectantly, just as Louis did. He was waiting for him to finish and not glancing away the way most people would. It gave Peter a burst of courage, so breathed deeply and regrouped.

“But, but, but it’s new for me,” he explained. “G-Gaston asked me to join them. I, I usually play with a different mob.”

“I play football. Do you need more players?” Julien asked earnestly.

Peter looked at him in astonishment. He had no idea; it wasn’t his place to say. He was stuck again, trying to find words. Luckily, Louis jumped in.

“I’m sure they’d welcome anyone. It’s a group of men from a few restaurants; they play on the sports field behind the _Lyc_ _ée St. Louis_ in the Latin Quarter,” Louis said. “I’ll tell you what, Pierre. Let’s go to my flat, collect your sports kit, and I’ll come watch you play before I leave for work. Julien, if you meet us there, we can leave for the restaurant together. There’s a flat above the restaurant where you can clean up after the match.”

“ _Formidable_!” Julien said. “I’ll see you there. Thank you for the breakfast, Monsieur LeBeau.”

“It’s only a practice. Not a mmmmatch,” Peter was mumbling.

“My pleasure, Julien,” Louis said as paid the check and got to his feet to leave. Peter could only nod and wave as they parted from Julien.

**XXX**

“You’re very quiet,” Louis said as he and Peter walked back to the Marais.

“Still a bit nauseated, I think,” Peter replied. And he was, but that wasn’t really it. The morning had started too early, with too little sleep, and he was feeling a shyness he hadn’t felt in months rise back up.

Peter knew he needed to buck up. It was easier for him to lurk in the shadows, to hang out in the alley with dishwashers and the tobacco girls, and have his secret rendezvouses with Tomasz. In the last few days, he’d pushed—and been pushed—beyond his normal comfort. He had asked a girl out, attended a dinner party, met new people, and made plans with them. He talked to Henri about things he never, ever talked to anyone about.

But he was feeling shaken again, and his headache was making that sensation worse. Talking to Louis about things that happened during the war had rattled his confidence. And now he was going to play football with people he barely knew. Louis would be watching, and that would help a bit. But now Julien had horned in, and Peter wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do about that. He couldn’t very well introduce him; he could barely introduce himself.

Peter had overheard Colonel Hogan say something once about him: “It’s always two steps forward, one step back with him.” He knew the Gov was right, and he felt ashamed about it. He really, really had to try harder.

“Fresh air and exercise will do you good,” Louis said with certainty as they walked. “They have always helped you.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Peter grumbled. “But… well, he’s a b-b-bit pushy, isn’t he? That Julien? The way he invited himself to come play ffffootball?”

“He didn’t invite himself; he asked if they need players, and I encouraged him to go,” Louis said. “He’s new; many of the young men play; and these are the chefs and waiters on our team. He can get to know them.”

“Right,” Peter said with resignation. “Well, I can’t introduce him. I j-j-just can’t.”

“Don’t worry about that. He can introduce himself,” Louis said dismissively. “He’s a big boy.”

 _Ouch_ , Peter thought. He tried not to snap out what he was thinking, but the combination of a lingering headache and rising anxiety was making him testy. “It’s not about being big and you know it,” he said harshly. “I can’t introduce myself and you know that too. What does that make me, then?”

Louis winced. It was a poor choice of words. Nothing was harder for Peter than introducing himself, and feeling dismissed as immature was high on his list of pet peeves.

“Hang on, hang on,” Louis said, slowing his walk and grabbing Peter by the arm. They had just passed the Saint Paul Metro station and were turning onto Louis’s street. “I’m sorry, _mon pote_ , my words came out wrong. You’re worried about introducing yourself to new people?”

“I’m always worried about that, Louis,” Peter grumbled. “You know that.”

“I do,” Louis replied. “But I can also see you’re doing wonderfully, Pierre.”

“I was stammering the whole time I spoke to Julien! And the same thing happened with Pascal! How is that wonderful?”

“It’s wonderful because you are talking, and the more you talk, the less your stammer hinders you,” Louis said. “Pierre, you have told me yourself that you will always stammer, and that the most important thing is to accept that about yourself.” Louis linked arms with Peter and resumed walking. “Did you think Julien cared that you were stammering?”

“No,” Peter admitted. “He didn’t seem bothered by it. But _I_ care! And I could tell I was stammering more.”

“You are your own worst critic,” Louis replied. “If you’d like, I will make the introduction— _hein_? That way you won’t have to say your name in front of everyone.”

“That would help,” Peter said, pulling just a little closer to Louis as they walked along, while feeling miserable at knowing he needed Louis’s support as his crutch.

**XXX**

Louis’s presence really did smooth over everything. All the players were genuinely thrilled that Monsieur LeBeau had come to watch. The fact that this new young man, Peter Newkirk, had something to do with _le chef de cuisine_ filled everyone with respect; the fact he proved to be quite a talented football player on top of that filled everyone with awe. Nobody noticed or cared that he hadn’t introduced himself, because the esteemed Monsieur LeBeau had done the honors.

Once the saying of his name had been dispensed with, Peter was able to focus on the game, and although he wasn’t exactly talking anyone’s ear off, he was chatting quite amiably about the practice itself.

After an hour, the practice session broke up. Peter and Julien jogged up to Louis.

“We play again on Thursday,” Peter said, panting as he spoke, damp hair clinging to his face.

“Good, good,” Louis replied. “We have to go now, Pierre,” he said, gesturing to Julien, who was standing, hands on hips, breathing heavily.

“Alright, well, see you, then,” Peter replied. “Thanks for coming to watch, Louis.” He saw LeBeau made a tiny tip of the head and added quickly, “I’m glad you came to play, Julien.”

Julien smiled brightly and nodded in reply as Louis, patted Peter on his flank. “Drink plenty of water when you get back to the flat, and be sure to get some rest,” he lectured gently. “Your lungs are still not 100%.”

Julien looked from Louis to Peter and back again. Louis provided the answer to the question Julien was too polite to ask. “He had a very bad bout of pneumonia last year, at the end of the war.” Julien still looked puzzled, so Louis added, “We were POWs together.”

“At your age? Really?” Julien asked Peter, addressing him for the first time in flawless English. “I would have guessed you were too young to serve in the military.”

“I, I, I was, actually. T-too young, I mmmean. B-but they t-t-took me anyway, the RAF, I mmmean. And, and I g-got c-c-c-caught. Captured, you know.”

“No wonder you two are so close,” Julien said sympathetically. “My father was a POW in the last war.”

“Oh,” Peter replied. Another brilliant response, he thought to himself. These conversations with Julien seemed to bring that out in him. He finally found the nerve to ask a question. “D-d-did you serve?”

Julien inhaled and let out a deep, regretful sound. “No, not the way you did,” he said. “I was at university in Toulouse when it started. By the time France fell… well, I stayed in Vichy, and did what I could to help.”

“University?” Peter asked. Oh, he understood now. Toffs could use higher education to keep their sons out of the war. Julien was obviously soft and pampered. He probably didn’t have a scar anywhere, he thought, rubbing at his wrist. The scars from being bound in Gestapo custody were fading with time, but Peter would always know they were there.

“Yes,” Julien said. “Chemistry, actually.”

“Oh,” Peter said. He was at a loss for words again, but fortunately Louis was there.

“Let’s go,” Louis said. “See you at three o’clock, Pierre. Get some rest.” He threw Peter a wink, and hoped he actually would rest, at least until Tomasz arrived.

**XXX**

Peter was sleeping on the sofa with Cosette when he heard the thump on the door. He rose to let Tomasz in, looking at him with pure need as he entered the flat. He wanted to tell him about Suzanne and Les Halles and Louis and Gaston and Julien and football, and at the same time he didn’t want to tell him anything. They only had a few weeks remaining together; he didn’t want to do anything to muddle up what they had together.

Instead, Peter led Tomasz to the living room, pulled the curtains shut, pushed Tomasz onto the sofa, and straddled his lap. Soon their shirts were off; soon everything else was off, too, and Peter was on his knees as a hand guided his head.

And soon after that, fresh from a shower, they were at their favorite café, smiling at one another blissfully while ordering lunch. Conversation ran merrily from football to tennis to Thérèse and Solange and Wanda and Veronica to films and swimming and Adele and Suzanne.

“I, I’m seeing Suzanne tomorrow, Tomasz,” Peter finally said.

“You should,” Tomasz said, with a small grin. “She’s very pretty and sweet. And you should keep up the charade.”

“Charade?” Peter asked, feeling awkward at what Tomasz was suggesting.

“That you’re not queer. LeBeau will appreciate knowing you’re making effort,” Tomasz said with a sneer.

“He doesn’t care what I do, and with whom,” Peter said. “You saw that for yourself. He accepts… us.”

“I heard words,” Tomasz said. “I don’t believe. Nobody likes queer.” He leaned in and grinned in a teasing, cajoling tone. “We are same, both queer. Don’t take it so hard.”

“It’s still new to me,” Peter said, squirming uncomfortably. “And I still like girls.”

“And they like you. So pretty,” Tomasz said, touching Peter’s cheek. “But you still don’t know everything boys can do. You’ll change your mind.”

“I don’t think I will,” Peter said stubbornly. “Not about what you’re thinking.”

“Your loss,” Tomasz shrugged, but then suddenly he looked understanding. “It doesn’t matter to me, Pierre. I don’t need it so much now, as long as I have you.”

Peter could feel the tension drain away. “You’re sure?” he asked.

“Of course, I’m sure,” Tomasz replied. “It’s OK. We don’t have to rush. I just like you.” He sniffed the air. “It’s going to rain soon,” he said.

Peter smiled, fighting the temptation to kiss Tomasz right then and there. “And Suzanne? You understand?”

“Of course I understand. Show girl a nice time, Pierre. Take dancing. We can’t dance together.”

“No, we can’t,” Peter said. “Dancing is with girls.”

**XXX**

Tomasz didn’t need to report to work until five o’clock, but Peter had to be there two hours earlier. A light rain began to fall as they walked together. To get out of the drizzle, they decided to stop at a bookstore whose owner they knew to be one of their own tribe.

Peter didn’t notice Tomasz slipping the man some money; he assumed it was an act of kindness that the middle-aged gentleman waved them into a back room where they could have a few intimate moments before going their separate ways. In the small room, which appeared to be an office with a sofa and lots of pillows, they held one another tight to kiss, feeling the heat of one another’s breath. Tomasz peered down at Peter, stroking his cheek and neck and sliding his hand under his shirt to caress his shoulder.

“If you see Suzanne tomorrow, I might not kiss you again until Thursday,” Tomasz purred as his hands ran over Peter’s body. His other hand was unbuttoning Peter’s shirt from the bottom and Peter could feel Tom’s fingers slip under his belt. “And I always need to kiss you.”

“We can’t do this here, Tommy,” Peter sighed, though that thought did not stop his lips from pressing Tomasz’s.

“This is exactly where we can do this,” Tomasz said. “I give Albert 100 francs.”

“You what?” Peter asked, startled. “To come back here?”

“Yes, what you think?” Tomasz laughed. “Now let me calm you down. We only get fifteen minutes.” He undid Peter’s belt and fly and let his hand wander.

**XXX**

The rain let up, and Peter walked into the restaurant on time, feeling extremely naughty and refreshed. Tom certainly had some creative ideas, he thought with a grin; he couldn’t wait to see him on a smoke break later in the evening.

As he entered the kitchen, Peter saw Pascal at his station, going over some basic knife skills with Gaston. Suddenly he remembered than he was to shadow Louis today. So he set off through the restaurant itself to Louis’s business office, which was located behind the cloak room.

As he approached, he heard several sets of feet above him, and heard Louis’s voice, sounding concerned. He headed up the staircase behind the cloakroom to the family apartment. Two uniformed policemen were standing in the living room.

“Louis?” Peter shouted in concern.

“Who are you?” one of the policemen replied. But in a moment, Louis was in the room, clearing things up in rapid-fire French.

“He is my friend and my employee, Peter Newkirk,” Louis explained as a man in plain-clothes—presumably a detective, Peter decided—following him into the room.

“This is a crime scene,” the policeman insisted. He turned to Peter. “Where were you at 11:30 this morning?”

“Sleeping at Monsieur LeBeau’s flat,” Peter answered, looking around anxiously. What was wrong? And was he a suspect?

“Stop it, LaFleur,” the detective said before turning to Peter. “Someone broke the lock and entered this space last night,” he said. “Would you know anything about that, young man?”

“No,” Peter replied, looking at Louis for help. He was thinking, but not saying, what would be obvious to any thief: If he was the culprit, why on earth would he go back to the crime scene? That would be ruddy stupid.

“He is my house guest. I know where he’s been at all times,” Louis said.

“Alright,” the detective said.

“Was something stolen?” Peter asked Louis.

“There’s nothing up here of any particular value, Pierre,” Louis replied. “But oddly enough, the intruders left something.”

“Besides rumpled bed linens,” the police remarked.

The detective held up the evidence. It was a pair of aviator sunglasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hogan made the "two steps forward" comment about Newkirk in chapter 21 of "Done Talking," which is still a work in progress. (To be picked up again someday...) I didn't actually have Newkirk overhear it at that time. But I think it's a fair observation that Hogan could have made on several occasions.
> 
> Regarding "Nora's condition" -- we established way in chapter 12 of A Minor Problem that Peter's next-oldest sister, Nora, has diabetes and need insulin shots every day. It was still a very brittle, hard-to-control medical condition in the 1940s.


	20. Demi-Vérités

Peter could feel the color draining from his face. Those were Tomasz’s sunglasses. What the bloody hell were they doing here?

The detective noticed his expression. “Do you recognize these, young man?” he asked.

 _Don’t rush. Don’t stammer. Stay cool._ Peter pulled himself together, fishing a cigarette out of his breast pocket and casually lighting it.

“I really couldn’t say. That style was very c-c-common in the wwwar, you see,” Peter said. That wasn’t bad, he thought. He could have sounded worse. And he couldn’t be sure about the glasses, he told himself. There were lots of sunglasses about; they were sold in military surplus stories. He looked around the room. Things were in their place; there was no obvious sign of intrusion.

“Hmm. Then why are you stuttering?” the detective asked.

 _Stay cool_ , he reminded himself again. “B-because I j-just do,” Peter shrugged. “I, I have a sp-speech impediment.” And at the moment, it was worse than usual, he thought with annoyance, but he smiled disarmingly; he knew he had a good smile, and he might as well use it.

The detective raised his eyebrows, but Louis took Peter by the elbow and looked at the detective sternly. “He is my friend and my employee. Yes, he stutters, and that fact is irrelevant to this matter. He was with me last night and this morning. So unless you have a reason to question him, I’d like him to be able to begin work.” He turned to Peter. “Get down to the kitchen. I’m sure Pascal needs you.”

Peter didn’t budge. Instead, he tipped his head to one side and lowered his chin slightly. Eyes wide, he peered up at the detective through his lashes. _Look attentive but young and submissive—that's the goal. Just look, and blink slowly. Bite your lip a little; he'll feel protective. That's it_ , he told himself.

The detective bought it. He nodded. “You can go,” he said, then turned to Louis. “He is certainly not a suspect.”

“ _Merci_. Of course he is not,” Louis replied. Then he patted Peter on the side. “Go on. I’ll see you shortly. We have those menus to work on.”

“Not a word about the evidence, young man,” the detective called after Peter as he headed down the stairs. Peter walked, reminding himself to never run unless he was being chased.

When Peter got to the bottom of the steps, he paused to look at the lock. He hadn’t noticed it before because the door was flung open. He was careful not to touch it, but it was clear it had been opened roughly, not with a precision lock pick like the ones he used, but something larger. The tool used was handled clumsily enough to leave marks on the lock, rendering it useless.

What a bleeding amateur, Peter thought as he headed into the kitchen. He shook his head in dismay and wondered if Tomasz would show up at five o’clock. He checked his watch. An hour and fifty minutes from now. He’d better have a good explanation.

**XXX**

When Louis arrived in the kitchen half an hour later after the police had departed, Peter was busy showing Gaston the proper _macedoine_ technique for melons. “Once you’ve topped and tailed it, you square it off,” he was saying as Louis stood nearby, observing. Peter continued his work, as kitchen brigade protocol dictated, while the _chef de cuisine_ watched. “Five centimeters long. I don’t have to emphasize how important c-c-c-consistency is,” Peter continued. As he finished his task, Louis stepped forward and spoke.

“Excellent work, Pierre,” he said. “Gaston, did you notice his stacking method?”

“ _Oui, Monsieur LeBeau_ ,” Gaston said seriously. “It was very quick.” He was in awe at being in the presence of the master of one of the best-regarded kitchens in Paris.

“Good, good. Yes, Pierre is extremely deft with his hands,” Louis said. “Once you’ve got _macedoine_ down, Pierre will be able to show you his _brunoise_ —and then his _fine brunoise_ , which is superlative. But remember, all technique goes back to the _julienne_. Continue to practice that, and you will eventually be able to do everything else.” He smiled and nodded at Pascal, who was standing over Peter as he instructed Gaston. “Chef Pascal taught me, and he taught Pierre. Now he will teach you. When you learn from any of us, you are learning from him.”

Pascal gave him a small bow and Gaston, all big blue eyes and completely bafflement as to what he should do next, followed suit. Peter barely suppressed a laugh; Louis subtly elbowed him in the ribs.

“ _Merci, merci, Monsieur LeBeau_. I will not let you down! Nor you, Chef Pascal! Nor you, Monsieur Pierre!”

“I have no doubt about that, Gaston,” Louis said. “Now, I must take Pierre away with me. We have some work to do in the office.” He checked his watch. “Gaston, please tell the _sous-chef_ that I would like him to send two _plats du jour_ to the office. We’ll eat before the dinner service begins.”

Gaston scurried off and Pascal laughed as he rounded a corner. “He is very eager,” he said, shaking his head. “Not a natural like some people,” he added with a nod toward Peter, “but he’s made good progress very quickly. His father taught him well.”

Louis smiled and grabbed Peter by the arm. “Gaston has promise, Pascal. Now, Pierre and I have menus to go over and a few other things to discuss.”

Pascal watched them go, then cast his eyes across the room to see if the _plongeurs_ had arrived yet. No, it was too soon. He shook his head. What a headache that Polish boy was turning out to be.

**XXX**

“Why did you call the police?” Peter hissed as soon as the door to Louis’s office was shut. They stood, huddled together, inches apart.

“I didn’t. The _maître d’_ got to work before me and noticed the door was ajar. He talked it over with Pascal, who was in the kitchen, and they called the police. They had just arrived when I got here,” Louis whispered. “And why shouldn’t we have called?”

“You should have waited for me,” Peter replied. “I could have told you it’s an inside job, Louis. The person who got in and went upstairs is someone who knew the layout.”

“They broke the lock, Pierre,” Louis said.

“Yes, very badly. Complete amateurs. You saw it,” Peter said.

Louis was nodding. He knew what a skilled break-in looked like, and this wasn’t it.

“Was there evidence of forced entry on this level?” Peter asked.

“Nothing was forced, but the cleaning supervisor confirmed that a window in the kitchen was left ajar on Sunday to air out the space. It had been left open just a tiny crack, but it was enough,” Louis said. “That’s how they entered. And it was shut completely this morning.”

“Hmmm. It takes a sloppy thief to close a window wrong. They didn’t know what they were doing,” Peter murmured. “Did the police dust for fingerprints?”

“Yes,” Louis replied. “But they weren’t sure they picked anything up.”  
  
“Right. It’s possible the intruder had enough sense to wear gloves. Louis, I didn’t see the rest of the flat. Was there other evidence?”

“You heard the policeman. Rumpled bed linens. Somebody _slept_ in my grandparents’ old bed,” Louis replied with outrage creeping into this voice. He didn’t want to say what else he had seen, but he was quite annoyed by it. He put the brakes on that emotion and returned to what Peter had said. “Inside job, you said? You’re certain?”

“Yes,” Peter replied. “I, um, uh…”

Peter let out a deep breath. He was caught between loyalties. Louis was his best friend and his true confidant, a man who had saved his life more than once. And Tomasz was his lover, someone he had trusted with a part of himself he’d never felt safe enough to share with anyone.

“Pierre? Do you know who did it?”

He knew. He had no doubt. The glasses were military; that was obvious from the sturdy but lightweight construction. They weren’t the Ray-Bans worn by American and French aviators, nor were they the rounded sunglasses issued to RAF flight crew. No, they were more rectangular, with side shields to fend off glare. He wondered if the detective had realized their origin.

“I, um, uh,” Peter sputtered. He looked at Louis, who was watching him carefully, squinting, waiting for the next words. “I, I can’t be c-completely sure, b-b-but I know those glasses, Louis.”

“I do too,” Louis said.

Peter’s heart sank. “You do?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ve seen Tomasz wear them,” Louis said. He saw Peter wince, and he pressed on. “You have, too, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Peter admitted. "I don't know if the coppers have figured it out, but they're Polish Air Force issue."

“Mm, I thought so," Louis said. He looked up with concern at Peter. "Pierre, are you still spending a lot of time with him? Are you still… close?”

Peter was seeing Tomasz daily, so he couldn’t say no. But the truth was, they’d been together less often over the last several days. Tomasz had been to the flat during the day on Sunday, before they headed off to see the girls and go swimming. Tomasz had turned down Peter’s dinner invitation to meet up with an old friend. Peter had seen him on Monday for a meal and that awful cinema outing; he’d desperately wanted intimacy, but there was no place to go for it. Today they’d caught up on their urges, quickly and efficiently. But Tomasz’s interests seemed to be elsewhere, and Peter knew he was pulling back too.

“Well you know, I saw him briefly on Sunday and Monday. But…” Peter gulped hard and tipped his head nervously. “I feel like something’s changing, Louis. He, he, he seems…”

There was a knock at that moment; Louis opened the door to admit a waiter, who had brought the meal Gaston had ordered for them. The waiter set it out neatly at the table in Louis’s office and poured the wine. As he departed, Louis waved Peter to sit.

“Not feeling very hungry all of a sudden, mate,” Peter said.

“You have to eat,” Louis said. “Please try. Now, tell me, Pierre, what is changing?”

“He seems angry a lot,” Peter said glumly as he obediently picked up his fork. “I think he’s rrrresentful of … a, a lot of things.” He stopped, blinked, and shrugged, hoping Louis would supply the words. “I, I can’t explain it, Louis. He j-j-just… says things.”

His interest in Suzanne had not helped, and Peter knew it. He’d tried to be open about it; was that was a mistake? He didn't NOT want Tomasz; he still wanted him desperately, but ... well, he could go places with a girl on his arm that he could never go with a boy, couldn’t he? He could fit in. And the fact that Peter had a generous guardian in Hogan and a close friend in Louis seemed to be annoy Tomasz; he didn’t have anyone like that looking after him. But above all, there was Tomasz’s need for that one thing Peter didn’t want to give him. Maybe that was unfair of him. Maybe he’d have to think about it. He didn’t want to, but he might have to. But he was leaving soon, so maybe it wouldn’t reach that point.

"Infatuations don't always last, Pierre," Louis said softly. "And you'll be going home soon."

**XXX**

Tomasz had arrived by the time Peter returned to the kitchen; his orders were to assist Monsieur Julien with preparations of the evening’s special dessert featuring his strawberry rosettes. Peter and Tomasz exchanged nods across the room, but there was no time to talk. Even on a Tuesday night, the restaurant was busy. Dinner service would begin at half-past six. Tomasz and the other _plongeurs_ had crockery and bakeware to wash, glasses and knives to polish, tables and floors to scrub, saucepans to fetch down from the shelves for testy chefs, coffee to make for the staff and then for the guests too. All the _plongeurs_ worked hard from the moment they arrived, and that was before the dishes started to pile up.

It was half-past seven and the first seating was under way when a few of the kitchen boys finally stole out to the alley for their smoke break. Peter saw them going, and asked Julien for permission to join them, which he granted with a quizzical look.

Peter and Tomasz chatted with the other men, as well as the girls from the tobacco shop, for a few minutes before retreating down the alley together, stopping in a doorway they’d claimed as their own. It was a clear day, the 2nd of July, and at half-past seven, the evening was still bright; sunset was two and half hours away. Peter blinked up at the sky. Then he turned to face Tomasz and laid a hand on his cheek.

“You’re still bruised,” he said. “You never did tell me how that happened.”

“I told you, it was small incident on Sunday. Don’t worry.” He took Peter’s hand, held it to his mouth and kissed it. Peter could feel a little leap of affection in his stomach. Tomasz leaned in to whisper in Peter’s ear. “You weren’t worried when I was on knees in bookstore, Piotr.”

“No, I think my mind was on something else at that time,” Peter admitted with a smile. He slid his fingers under Tomasz’s belt and stroked, then pulled back his hand. The chances of being spotted out here in the alleyway were pretty high; in fact, he could hear Thérèse and Solange from the tobacco shop heading their way.

“Tomasz, Tomasz,” they called out as they drew closer. They sidled up to him. “Your new friend is waiting right down there,” Solange said, tipping her head toward a shadowy figure at the end of the alley as she puffed on a cigarette. Thérèse stood behind her, tittering.

“Who’s that?” Peter asked as he peered down the alley.

“Dimitris,” Tomasz said. “Friend from football game. You met him.” He patted Peter on the chest. “I have to go talk to him; he lend me some money last week. You should go inside before Monsieur Julien looks for you.”

“When did I meet him?” Peter asked.

“We play football last Saturday. You don’t remember?” Tomasz patted him again and headed down the alley. He and Dimitris turned the corner and were out of sight.

“I don’t remember him at all,” Peter said to Solange as he stubbed a cigarette out under his foot.

She exchanged a look with Thérèse. “Every few weeks, Tomasz makes new friends,” Solange said.

“ _Oui, c’est vrai_ ,” Thérèse said. “Always new men.” Her voice slipped lower. “Be careful, Pierre.”

Peter’s eyes were on the end of the alley, waiting for Tomasz to return. “I’m always careful,” he said absently. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a very long time, thank you very much.”

“Yes, but you have not had many _petits amis_ ,” Solange said. “Tomasz is your first, _oui_?”

“What?” Peter asked. Had she said “boyfriend”? He could feel himself flushing.

“I told you not to say anything,” Thérèse said fiercely to her friend. “They could just be friends.”

“Friends who have their own secret spot in the alley? Hardly,” Solange said, waving a hand dismissively. “Pierre, you don’t have lie to me. I understand. We see what goes on.”

“He’s not th-th-that,” Pierre said sharply. “And, and I have a, have a, have a, a, girlfriend. _Une copine, une petite amie_. Sssssuzanne.”

“Yes, and you have a boyfriend too,” Solange snapped. “I don’t care. Just look out. Tomasz always has new friends.”

Peter gave her a sour look and Solange responded in kind. She grabbed Thérèse by the elbow to head back into the tobacconist shop.

“Just be careful, Peter,” Thérèse called as Solange pulled her away.

**XXX**

Tomasz caught up with Peter in the alley, looking shaken and distracted.

“I thought you were going in,” Tomasz snapped.

“You said that, not me,” Peter replied. “Tomasz, I need a favor.”

“Fine, what?” Tomasz answered.

“Well, you know I have a, um, a date tomorrow. With Suzanne? You remember? You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, no, of course not,” Tomasz said, looking down the alley to where Dimitris had stood. “She is nice girl. You look good together.” He turned to smile at Peter, a very reassuring look that sent a warm feeling through Peter’s body.

“Righto, well,” Peter said. He took in a breath. “Well, I was wondering if I might borrow your sunglasses. We’re sitting at a café outdoors, and well, they look good.”

“Yes, yes,” Tomasz said, sounding distracted. “Only I don’t know where I put them. I could swear I had them yesterday.” He suddenly shifted his focus to Peter and smiled. “You try to impress little girl by looking like your big, strong boyfriend, hah?” He was purring seductively as he looked Peter up and down.

“Something like that,” Peter said. His heart was sinking. Any doubt that the glasses belong to Tomasz had evaporated. But why had he gone in the flat?

“And you’re seeing her, so you don’t have time for me tomorrow? What a mistake,” Tomasz said in a teasing tone. “The things we could do to each other…” he whispered. He stroked Peter’s bare arm.

Peter had heard of men undressing girls with their eyes; around Tomasz, he’d learned exactly what it felt like: It was exciting but also embarrassing to receive such attention, and at the moment his feelings were at war inside him, although one feeling seemed to be winning. Peter could feel himself breathing harder. In the late summer light, with a light sheen of sweat on his face and his sleeves rolled up, Tomasz was smiling at him, gently mocking him, touching him, and standing very close. He smelled of sandalwood, soap, olive oil, and sex. It was so damned arousing to be with him.

Peter wanted to kiss Tomasz, kiss him hard, shut out every distraction by surrendering to passion, and forget about why Tomasz had broken into the flat. But there was something else he needed to ask, something that was troubling him. “Those girls know about us. Solange and Thérèse. D-d-d-did you tell them?” Peter said solemnly.

“Tell them what?” Tomasz said. “That you are so pretty? That I am in love with you?”

“Love means being there in good times and bad times, so don’t say ‘ _Je t’aime_ ’ unless you really mean it,” Peter said. He remembered things Louis had explained to him about love and lust, and he needed to control this feeling. He stuck a hand in his pocket to settle down what was happening in his trousers with a pinch, then tipped his head toward the restaurant. “Come on, we have to get back to work.”

They had a long night ahead of them, Peter told himself. He’d sort the mystery out later.

**XXX**

Word travels fast in a kitchen, and the restaurant’s nerve center was steamier than usual that night, with the heat generated by boiling pots and broiling pans intensified by a sweltering summer night. As workers took their breaks in the alley, the talk of the break-in spread fast. At 10 o’clock, when Tomasz finally had time for another break, he grabbed Peter by the arm and led him outside. He was looking frantic.

“There was break-in?” he asked Peter urgently. “What you know about it?”

Peter shrugged.

“You must know! LeBeau tells you everything! Did they find anything?”

“What should they have found, Tom?” Peter asked the question coolly, knowing perfectly well it was not the first thing a disinterested observer would have asked.

Tomasz looked around anxiously. “I don’t know. Anything?”

“You should ask Monsieur LeBeau.” He pointed a thumb. “He’s right over there.”

Louis was indeed in the doorway, leaning into the hinge jamb with his arms crossed and observing as Tomasz and Peter stood, talking intently. “Monsieur LeBeau!” Peter called out. “Tomasz has a question for you!”

Louis approached them. “It’s about the break-in,” Peter said. “Go ahead, Tom, ask Monsieur LeBeau. He won’t bite.”

“I was asking Piotr if anything was found,” Tomasz said nervously.

“Evidence, you mean?” Louis asked as Tomasz nodded. “Yes, there was evidence. The detectives have taken it, and they’ve advised me not to discuss it.”

Louis looked at Tomasz without blinking. Tomasz nodded. Peter chimed in with a thought of his own. “Standard police procedure, that is. You can’t risk compromising the crime scene.”

“Of course, if anyone wanted to talk to me about the facts of the matter, I’d be willing to listen,” Louis added. “If you hear of anyone who wants to do that, send them my way.” He patted Tomasz on the arm and walked off.

As Louis departed, Tomasz grabbed Peter by the arm. “Why did you do that? Why did you make me talk to him?”

“It’s his restaurant, Tomasz,” Peter said. “If anyone knows the answers, it’s Monsieur LeBeau.” He stepped back and pointed at a small tear in the knee of Tomasz’s kitchen trousers. “You might want to stitch that, mate. Monsieur LeBeau insists on a tidy kitchen staff.” He patted Tomasz on the shoulder. “My break’s over, mate. See you inside.”


	21. Faire Une Pause

It was closing time, and Peter was tidying his station, putting extra food away, getting his knives and cutting boards in the right place for the next day, and wiping and sanitizing every tool and every surface. Everything had to be spotless and ready for the next shift. Being part of the kitchen brigade, with its clearly assigned duties and military-style hierarchy, had been a surprisingly easy fit for Peter. Louis, of course, knew it would be. Peter craved order and the chance to be useful, and he found those things here in the restaurant kitchen, just as he had in Stalag 13.

Across the kitchen, Tomasz and the other _plongeurs_ were enveloped in steam as they washed, sanitized and dried dishes in an assembly line. Their job would not end when the chefs went home; they would be disinfecting surfaces, can openers, and meat slicers and wiping down walls for at least another hour.

Through the fog of steam, their eyes met. It had been two hours since they talked in the alley; Tomasz looked even more anxious and he tipped his head to signal to Peter that they should meet outside. Peter nodded subtly, dried his hands, and took off his apron to step outside for a smoke. Tomasz met him there five minutes later.

Tomasz usually walked confidently, but his head was hanging low as he approached Peter in the alley. Peter handed him a cigarette and lit it for him, and they stood quietly under a lamp post. Peter waited.

“You suspect me,” Tomasz finally said.

Peter sighed. “I don’t want to, Tomasz. But something tells me that if I went and looked at that side window,” he said, gesturing toward the building, “I would find some threads there that matched that hole in your trousers.”  
  
Tomasz went silent and shifted nervously.

“You’re not very good at this sneaking-about business, are you?” Peter said.

“No,” Tomasz replied. “I just needed a place to stay.”

“Why? You have your bedsit,” Peter replied. He’d actually never been there; Louis had warned them early in their relationship against carrying on their affair in a small flat with so little privacy. Except for that one time in the bookstore, they’d always used Louis’s flat for their, well, meetings.

“Not anymore,” Tomasz said. “I owed that guy Dimitris some money. That’s how I got black eye.”

“He hit you?” Peter sounded shocked. Tomasz knew how to handle himself, and he wasn’t small or vulnerable, although from a distance, Dimitris did look brawny.

“I hit him too,” Tomasz said with a hint of pride. “We got into fight.”

“But you were just talking to him!” Peter objected. “Like, like, like friends.”

“We work things out like men. But I cannot pay him back and pay rent. So I lose my flat.”

“So you sneaked into LeBeau’s flat upstairs?” Peter asked, sounding astonished. Tomasz was nodding, and Peter pressed on. “Why didn’t you just ask him? Or ask me? We would have tried to help.”

“I was poor. I was embarrass,” Tomasz said. “But I do not steal anything, Piotr.”

“No, but you broke in. You caused a lot of worry. You have to tell Lou—Monsieur LeBeau. Just tell him, Tomasz.”

Tomasz sighed and shifted his feet. “You come with me?”

“Of course I will,” Peter said. He was disappointed in Tomasz for sneaking and lying, no doubt. And Tomasz had absolutely no skill as a housebreaker, so he was doubly disappointed; Peter still took some pride in his thieves’ code of honor. But Tommy was coming clean. Maybe Louis wouldn’t be too hard on him.

**XXX**

They sat in Louis’s office, the _chef de cuisine_ on one side of the desk and two anxious young men on the other.

Louis sat and listened to Tomasz’ tale of woe. How he’d made a casual bet on a football match, and the Greek had tricked him into raising his stakes not once, but twice. How he thought he’d doubled his winnings to the point where could put some money aside, only to lose everything he’d earned and quite a bit that he’d borrowed. How the Greek was relentless about recovering every _sou_. How it had gone on now for a month, and how last week he simply couldn’t cover his rent. How he came home to find his few simple possessions on the curb. How, in desperation, he had climbed in the restaurant window, tearing his trousers on the way in. How he hadn’t taken anything, and now begged for forgiveness.

Peter was nodding along, wanting to believe Tomasz.

Louis was nodding along, not believing a word of it.

He didn’t believe it because Tomasz said he was alone, and Louis knew he was not. Clothes had been dropped in two piles, disturbing the dust that accumulated on the floor of a rarely-used bedroom. Two sets of shoes had left slight but definite imprints.

And the condition of the sheets suggested it had been a very busy night. Perhaps one man was capable of leaving that many white stains, but Louis doubted it. And he didn’t plan to spend another thought on it; it was his grandparents’ bed, and he’d told the detective not to return the evidence. The bedding that had been stripped and bagged and taken away would be burned, and Louis was fine with that. He felt personally violated by the intrusion.

And another thing—days before the break-in, the girls from the tobacco shop had come to him to point out the Greek man who seemed to be casing their row of buildings. It was Pascal who pointed out that whenever he waited at the end of the alley, Tomasz wandered over to him. Louis, who had developed a talent for surveillance during the war, had followed them once from a discreet distance, wondering if something underhanded was up. He'd seen them kiss.

Tomasz was lying because he didn’t want Pierre to know about this other man.

Louis didn’t want Pierre to know either. So he chose forgiveness. Cautious, watchful forgiveness.

“I can advance you two weeks’ pay,” he told Tomasz. “But you have to use it wisely. No gambling with it.” He shot a look at Peter. He hadn’t gambled in well over a year, and he didn’t want him starting now. “And you can clean the flat to pay me back for the advance and for the trouble you’ve caused. Do you consider that fair?”

“It is generous, Monsieur LeBeau. Thank you,” Tomasz said, looking moved by the gesture of kindness.

“Good. Get back to work, Tomasz. Pierre, please stay.”

Peter took Tomasz’s hand and held it briefly, then threw caution to the wind and leaned in to kiss him. It was not a long kiss, but it was aching and passionate as their hands stroked one another’s necks, shoulders, cheeks. Peter bit his lip as he sat back and watched Tomasz leave. As Tomasz closed the door behind him, Peter’s eyes flickered up to see what Louis was thinking. To his surprise, he couldn’t read his expression.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… not in front of you…” Peter stammered.

“Kissed him? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m well aware you are intimate. You don’t have to protect me from the sight of two men kissing,” Louis said. He recognized the hunger and desire Pierre felt for Tomasz. Anyone who’d ever fallen hard for a lover could see it.

Peter nodded and bit his lip, then got up the courage to speak. “But something is bothering you.”

Louis let out a sigh. “Yes,” he said. “I have to ask you something that’s very difficult. Do you think you can stay away from Tomasz for a while?”

“What?” Peter asked. “Stay away how?”

“Don’t bring him to the flat, Pierre. I’m not sure I can trust him.”

“But, but you heard what Tom said! He got into difficulty with money. He, he was desperate! He didn’t mean it.”

“Pierre, I understand, but he’s broken my trust. Tell me honestly, do _you_ believe him?”

Peter’s face fell. He wasn’t by nature a trusting person, but Tomasz was different. They were close. They were intimate. They’d given the deepest parts of themselves to one another. They’d shown one another pieces no one else was allowed to see. The piece where you lose control and dissolve into pure pleasure. The piece where you burst with joy for one another. The piece where you make yourselves completely, nakedly vulnerable. The piece where you let one another inside.

Almost inside.

“I want to believe him, Louis,” Peter said softly.

“I know you do. In a way, he’s your first lover, just as Anja was. He will always be special,” Louis said.

“Are you asking me to end it, Louis? That’s not fair!”

“Not end it, no. But fair or not, Pierre, I think it is for the best that you take a break,” Louis said. “Give it a week or two. See if you can cool things down.”

“Why? Why? Can’t you j-just forgive him?” Peter implored.

Louis thought about how to answer. Of course he could forgive Tomasz for being stupid enough to break into the flat. He could forgive him for hiding what he had done. He could forgive him for making up a transparently false story about it.

But cheating on Peter, lying to him, and breaking his heart? No, Louis didn’t think he could forgive Tomasz for that.

“Take a week off from him, Pierre. We’ll discuss it at home, alright?”

“You don’t get to boss me around, Louis! Not about this!” Peter protested.

Louis sighed. Their love nest was in his flat, so he actually had every right not to permit Tomasz inside. And more importantly, Pierre was his responsibility. He was still only twenty. He was still a minor. And he couldn’t see the trouble that was ahead. But Louis didn’t want to throw his weight around. He wanted to persuade Pierre to be careful. General Hogan was counting on him.

“I am asking you as your brother and your temporary guardian, Pierre,” Louis said kindly but firmly. “I am asking you to trust me that this time I actually do know what is best for you. I can’t make you do anything, but I’d like you to take a week or two off from dating him. Think it over, and we can talk at home. Your sisters are coming; let’s focus on their visit, alright?” Mavis and Nora would distract him, Louis knew. So would his plans with Suzanne, and so would football with Gaston and Julien. Louis could see it was time to push him, if not away from Tomasz, then toward other possibilities.

Peter let out a whimper, but noise and miserable expression apart, he held himself together. “Fine,” he sulked. “You’re the grownup, and once again I’m just a stupid child.” He rubbed angrily at his eyes, then added, “You’re not going to tell the Colonel on me, are you? You’re not going to tell him about Tomasz?”

“I told you weeks ago, Pierre, it is not for me to tell him. It’s for you to decide when and whether you tell him you are homosexual.”

“Stop saying that! J-j-just stop it! I hate that word!” Peter shouted, getting to his feet. He could want Tomasz without being as queer as a nine-bob note; he was sure he could. He was Peter Newkirk; he was still a regular chap.

“It is a description, Pierre, and it seems to be an accurate one,” Louis said softly. “What else would you call this passion for Tomasz?”

“S-E-X,” Peter spelled out. “That’s all it is. Just S-E-X. Why can’t you understand that?”

“You’re allowed to say the word, Pierre. Sex. Why are you so afraid of words?” Louis asked. “Please, sit. You shouldn’t leave here until you’re calm.”

Peter sank back into his seat, looking defeated and bewildered. Why was he afraid? Because words had always been his undoing; Louis knew that. And it was obvious why these particular words were so bloody hard to say. He hated being different from everyone else. He hated not being what he knew a man was supposed to be. Being _that way_ … being _that_ … made him less of a man in everyone’s eyes, and he knew it. He had worked too hard to be recognized and respected as a grown man to let it slip away over stupid words and powerful feelings that were nobody’s business but his own.

Above all, he hated the idea that he could be found out, not just by the girls in the alleyway, but by everyone. Everyone. Mavis would always love him; he know that much. But would Mavis’s fiancé Alan accept him, or he become a wedge between Peter and his sister? And what about the rest of his sisters? He’d already heard what Helen’s husband, Jim Skeffington, thought about queers. What about Mummy and Neddie? What about Kinch and Carter, his best mates in the world next to Louis?

And what about his Guv? Most of all his Guv, because he really needed his Guv and wanted him right now. What if his Guv found out what he was and didn’t want him anymore? Where would he go then? What would he do without him?

It was as if Louis could read Peter’s mind. He came around the desk and perched on it, right in front of where Peter was sitting. He spoke very softly.

“Pierre, who is _mon petit frère_?”

“I am,” Peter replied, nodding at the familiar words.

“ _D’accord_. And who will always care for you, no matter what?”

“You will.”

“Correct, as always. And who will always come back to you, even if you don’t want me to? Who _always_ comes back and will never, ever leave you?”

“You won’t ever leave me or give up on me, will you?” Peter said, looking up at Louis tearfully. He leaned forward, laid his head in Louis’s lap and wrestled with all his sadness and confusion. It was a fight, but he didn’t cry, not unless one long trickle from the corner of his eye really counted. Which it didn’t, Peter was quite sure.

“Of course not, because you are part of my heart,” Louis said, petting Peter’s hair and wiping that tear with his thumb. “And not just me. Also Mavis, certainly. And General Hogan, without a doubt. Don’t be afraid. You can’t get rid of us if you try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soothing words that Louis says to Peter were also spoken by him in chapter 5.


	22. Reproche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for such a short chapter... I wanted to keep the ball rolling, and won't be able to write much more until final exams are over!

The walk back to the flat after work was usually chatty and companionable, but on Tuesday night Peter sped ahead of Louis the entire way. Louis halfway expected him to storm into the apartment and slam the door, but he didn’t. He waited in the courtyard until Louis caught up and allowed him, as the owner, to take out his keys and let them both in.

Cosette was waiting for them at the door, and Peter scooped her up for a cuddle while Louis checked the mail that the concierge had left in the foyer. Finally their eyes locked.

“We’re both tired, but can’t go to bed angry,” Louis said. “Have a glass of wine and talk to me, Peter.”

Just like that, the fight went out of Peter. Every time Louis called him by his English name instead of Pierre, it did something to him inside. He knew it was Louis’s way of getting his attention, and it always worked. Peter secretly liked having Pierre as his pet name, but hearing his real name from Louis now and then felt like a reminder to both of them that he had a story that stretched before and after Stalag 13. Louis had become one of the people he counted on the most in life, and that would never change, but it was nice to have the rest of him acknowledged.

Louis rounded up a bottle of wine and two glasses, and Peter followed behind with Cosette in his arms. They slumped into a pair of big, roomy armchairs, separated by a coffee table, while Louis poured the wine.

“I know it’s a lot to ask of you, Peter,” Louis began as he put a glass on the table in front of his friend.

Peter was slouched deep into the overstuffed chair and was focused on petting Cosette, who laid on his chest. He peered up at Louis and nodded slowly. “I understand,” he said. “You’d be well within your rights to fire him for what he did.”

“I would, but I don’t intend to do that,” Louis said. “Pierre, I don’t want to interfere with your happiness, but we both need to think about whether we can trust him.”

“I know. He can’t come here anymore,” Peter said in resignation. “We could go to his flat, I suppose.”

Louis shook his head. “You already know I think that’s very unwise. You’re still underage. I don’t feel that you’re safe there, neither one of you. Peter, would you please take a break? Let’s concentrate are having a nice visit with your sisters. They’ll be here in five days.”

Peter could feel tears welling up as he nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. It was crazy, but in only six weeks, being next to Tomasz, making love with Tomasz, had become so important to him. It was going to be bloody hard to stop, but he knew he had to do. Louis never asked much of him, but he was asking now.

“Louis, I’m disappointed in him too,” he finally blurted out. “How could he do something so stupid to you, and to me?

Louis hesitated. “I don’t think we have the whole story yet,” he said. He was certain Pierre didn’t, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear that Tomasz was cheating on him. That would be better coming from Tomasz himself.

As Louis spoke, Cosette stood and rubbed against Peter’s chin, distracting him for moment and provoking a small laugh. “It’s you and me now, Cosette,” Peter murmured as he sat up straight. She rubbed her ears and reached for the wine glass as she settled into his lap, purring loudly.

Peter took a sip of wine and thought back to Anja. They’d always been racing the clock, and they knew it all along. So when it came time for them to separate, it was sad, but they had known the day was approaching. That was why leaving Anja hadn’t filled Peter with the aching, throbbing loneliness he felt at the prospect of being without Tomasz—wasn’t it?

No, he realized. It wasn't only that they knew it would eventually end; he and Tomasz knew that too. He and Anja had loved each other, but their love was so uncomplicated. They were friends and always would be. There was passion, but not this unquenchable flame. Anja had awakened one kind of love; Tomasz had ignited another.

For Peter, the weight of a man’s body on his, the scratch of his stubble, a pair of strong arms encircling him, and the confident stroke of his hand and his tongue in places they both knew well—all these things had been a revelation. But it was the familiarity and ease he felt with another man that had let him open up in this intimate way to Tomasz. That was what let him be fully himself. He felt comfortable with women, and he felt loved by them, but what he felt for Tomasz was different. More.

Suddenly it hit Peter. What he was thinking wasn’t about Tomasz at all. It was about men. He was thinking about wanting a special man to love only him. He gasped as the thought raced at him at a hundred miles an hour, knocked him down and crushed him flat. That thought made him exactly what Louis said. It made him a homosexual. If he thought like this, then that would be his life from now on. Skulking in the shadows, living in shame, so he could be in love with men.

No. No. No. No matter how drawn he was to men physically, this could not be what he was. He couldn’t allow it; he wouldn't accept this. His hand was shaking as he tried to take a swig of the wine. It would calm his nerves.

“Pierre? Pierre? Peter?” His name finally penetrated the haze of his mind. He looked up at Louis like he was coming out of a dream.

“You were shaking. Are you alright?” Louis’s dark brown eyes were wide with worry.

“I’m, I’m fine, Louis,” Peter said, deliberately evening out his tone. “I was j-j-just thinking, I’m seeing Suzanne tomorrow ffffor lunch."

“Are you sure? Are you ready for that?” Louis asked. "You could send word in the morning if you need more time."

“Of course I’m ready,” Peter said. “I’ve gone out with girls before. I th-th-think I ought to try that again, don’t you?”

Louis hesitated. Was Pierre really interested in this girl, or just feeling that he ought to be? Maybe he had to find out for himself. “If you’re ready,” Louis said. “She’s a good girl, and you do have fun together.”

“Yes,” Peter said. “Yes, that’s what’s important.”

They talked about what he could wear and where he should buy flowers, and gradually the conversation dwindled. It had been a very long day, and Louis shooed Peter off to bed while he cleaned up.

Peter was in bed, lights out, and eyes shut tight by the time Louis finished. Louis never got a chance to ask his usual late-night question—what was the best thing that happened today? He smiled at the sight of Cosette curled up beside Pierre, then tucked the blankets around him and leaned down to stroke his hair. His brown eyes were clouded with worry. For all his charms, Tomasz was no good for Pierre, he was sure of it. But breaking up was never easy, especially when one partner was hiding something important.

“ _Dors, mon frérot_ ,” he murmured. “No one is going to hurt you if I can help it.”

As the door shut, Peter rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, halfway expecting to see Tomasz smiling down at him, to feel their bodies pressed together in love.

It might be a little late for that, he reproached LeBeau silently.


	23. Rendez-vous déjeuner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter... longer ones will follow soon but I just wanted to get something posted!

Peter stood in front of the mirror as he tucked a hairline-striped shirt of lilac, blue and navy into his navy blue summer-weight trousers. A haircut would have been a clever idea, he thought as he stared at himself; he was getting shaggy, but it was a bit late to do anything about it. He was meeting Suzanne at the button factory where she worked in one hour to take her to lunch. He carefully knotted a lilac and white herringbone tie with small blue dots and noticed in the mirror that Louis was in the doorway peering at him.

Louis pointed at the still-unmade bed. “That cat is marking you as hers,” Louis said wryly as he stepped inside. And he was right. Peter had laid his navy blue suit jacket on the bed, and Cosette had settled comfortably onto a sleeve.

Peter shot him a grin as Louis picked up Cosette, moved her aside, and began fussing over the fur on the sleeve. After last night, Peter felt relieved to see his mate. He couldn’t stay angry for long. Although he would rather decide for himself what was in his own best interest, he couldn’t blame Louis for having strong views.

“I’ve got a lint brush,” Louis said. He vanished into his own bedroom next door for a moment, then returned with the tool and began tidying the jacket. Peter was perched on the window ledge, pulling on a pair of light blue socks and tying his black shoes. They had shared the ordinary routines of daily life for so long; not doing so was just one of the many ways they had missed one another since they parted in England at the end of August.

“I would never think to wear light socks with a dark suit, but it looks very dapper,” Louis commented as Peter stretched and reached for his jacket. Peter draped it carefully on a hanger and hung it over the top rail of his wardrobe door. He didn’t need to leave for half an hour.

“There’s n-no point in wearing dull accessories, Louis,” Peter said. “Socks are good for a flash of color.”

“You wear it well, and you look handsome,” Louis said. “Did you make this suit, too?” he asked, tugging at one sleeve to adjust it.

“No,” Peter said. “Colonel Hogan took me to buy this one a few weeks before Easter. I mean, I paid, but he took me to p-p-pick it out.” He shrugged, not wanting to explain further. Although this suit was off the rack, he had fitted and altered it himself, ripping out the lining and padding to adjust the shoulders and taper the jacket waist.

Peter still wasn’t used to the idea, but money hadn’t been a concern in the past year. Between back pay, a retroactive promotion, a lump-sum gratuity, and a disability check, he had returned to find he was flush with cash. And he wasn’t paying rent or buying food; Hogan provided for him in his role as guardian. But Peter drew the line at personal possessions, including his clothes. He made them himself or he bought them. It was a point of pride.

He was lost in thought again, pondering how much his life had changed and suddenly missing being in London with the Gov, until Louis's voice came drifting into his consciousness.

“I said, does he even know how to pick out a suit? He’s worn uniforms his whole life.” Louis had boundless respect for Colonel Hogan, but he couldn’t help teasing about some things, and he spoke with a hint of a laugh.

Peter snickered in reply. “Not really,” he said. “He had opinions about the importance of a navy blue suit, and he said I needed something lightweight, but he didn’t seem to know much about quality or fit.” He looked into the mirror as he spoke. “Should I have some Brylcreem?”

“It wouldn’t hurt. Getting your hair out of your face is a mature look,” Louis replied. He’d always been slightly baffled by Peter’s boyish habit of wearing his hair brushed forward. For someone who was always trying to look older, it wasn’t the way to go.

Louis made the bed while Peter touched up his hair, taming his cowlicks. Then he reached into the bedside table and drew out a small packet.

“Stick this in your wallet,” he told Peter.

“I won’t need that,” Peter said, looking nearly shocked. “Wh-where would we… I mean, honestly, Louis?”

“You’re very resourceful,” Louis said. “Just take it to be on the safe side.”

“But’s she a devout…”

“Yes, yes, you’ve said. Don’t believe everything you’ve heard,” Louis said. “Look, if the urge strikes, you should be prepared. That’s all I’m saying.”

Peter shook his head, but he picked up his wallet, did as instructed, and then placed the wallet down on his bed. “I’m not leaving for twenty minutes,” he said.

Louis consulted his watch. “Good. The restaurant’s on the way, so we can walk together. Come on, coffee first.”

They wandered out to the kitchen and Louis prepared espresso for both of them.

“You can pick up flowers at the shop on the other side of the Pont Neuf. Now, where are you taking Suzanne for lunch, Pierre?”

“I was hoping you’d have ideas. The button factory is near the Saint-Germain-des-Prés metro,” Peter said.

XXX

Peter stopped in front of the factory, a small bouquet of delphinium, hydrangea, and irises tucked under his arm. He pulled a small slip of paper out of his pocket. Louis had scrawled directions to a brasserie with white linen tablecloths located right off the Boulevard Saint Germain. “If you go, ask for Antoine,” he had told Peter.

He saw Suzanne as soon as he entered the tidy front office of the compact factory building. It was four stories high, and from the rumbling sounds above his head, Peter assumed that was where the machinery was.

“ _Ooh, c'est le garçon avec qui tu déjeunes?_ ” asked a tall girl with dark blonde hair who was standing in the waiting area with Suzanne and Adele. “ _Tres coquet!_ ”

Once a flirt, always a flirt. Peter understood what she said, threw caution to the wind, and winked at her as he approached Suzanne. It was easier than talking, and it was fun to see the blonde girl suddenly go quiet and wide-eyed, apparently weak at the knees.  
  
" _Bonne après-midi. Je m'appelle Pierre_ ," he said to the new young lady, who stared back at him in awe. He nodded and smiled warmly at Adele before taking Suzanne's hand and kissing it. He handed her the bouquet, and he felt a little surge of satisfaction when she smiled and blushed.

“They’re so beautiful, Pierre,” she said, holding the spray of flowers to her nose for a deep inhale. “Thank you. Could I … I mean…” She was looking unsure about where to put them, and Peter realized he hadn't thought that through. She was at work, not home.  
  
“Oh. P-perhaps Adele could take them while we go and have lunch,” Peter said. Adele did so with a warm smile. She sniffed the bouquet appreciatively, then held it out to their friend to do the same. Peter, meanwhile, drew Suzanne to his side, holding her hand.  
  
"Are you ready to go?" Peter asked. "Do, do you have enough time for a proper lunch?"  
  
"Madame Bisette gave me an hour today," Suzanne replied. "Did you have a place in mind?"

“ _Le Lys Vert_ on rue Guisarde,” Peter said confidently. “Monsieur LeBeau says it’s very charming.”

XXX

It was charming, and so was she. Suzanne had been the shyer of the two girls that Peter and Tomasz had met a few weeks earlier at the swimming pool, but she opened up ever since Peter had invited her to Louis’s dinner party. She was pert and petite, a pretty brunette with gorgeous brown eyes, and Peter decided as he looked across the table at her, reds, pinks and purples were definitely her color. Her summer dress was a little too nice for work, and was a lovely rose color. He was glad he bought her irises.

Antoine, the maître d’, had made clear that any friend of LeBeau’s was a friend of his, and he gave the young couple a seat by the window, under the restaurant’s most watchful waiter. Wine was on the house.

They chatted easily over lunch, on everything from their impressions of the dinner party, their last swimming outing, what was playing at the pictures, and the forthcoming French Open tennis tournament. Peter was curious about the game; it turned out that Suzanne had played, and she offered to meet him to show him some basics. He readily agreed, and they made plans for Sunday afternoon: Tennis first, then a swim. She would bring the balls; he was sure he could borrow a racket.

Then he remembered: His sisters were arriving that day. He frowned, baffled by how complicated his social calendar had suddenly become.

“Would Saturday be alright? After my football match, but before I leave for work? Around 11?”

Suzanne smiled charmingly. Of course that would work. She would come and watch the match, and they’d adjourn to the municipal tennis court a few streets away. It was a date.


	24. Plongé dans ses pensées

Peter hadn't gone home after his lunch with Suzanne. He walked her back to the factory, gave her a sweet kiss on the cheek, and set off on a long walk to clear his head.

She was ever so lovely, he decided. Her ivory cheeks were round and soft; her eyes were bright and earnest, her lips plump. And she was coming to see him play football with the other lads from the restaurant on Saturday morning, his very own rooting section. After that they'd have an hour or so for tennis. She was very keen on him—he could feel it.

But their time was short: A lunch, a swim, a talk on the sidelines, a tennis date.

And a train and a boat and car ride home. In a month, he would leave for London.

Everything was happening fast. His sisters were arriving in just four days. He wanted them to meet her. He wondered if he could feel the same way for her he'd felt for girls in the past, before… before he'd tasted a different delectable flavor. Maybe he could just try harder.

And Tomasz. He hadn't told him yet what Louis had decided. No, what _he_ had decided. It wasn't going to be easy and it hurt to think it, but Peter had made up his own mind that Louis was right. Something was off with Tom, and he didn't want to dance around it. Peter couldn’t put a finger on it, but he knew Tomasz was holding something back, beginning with that black eye. He seemed so distracted, and what was happening with that bloke Dimitris? Why had Tomasz hustled off to see him? He had to tell Tom he needed a break. Tonight. He had to do,

He was deep in these thoughts when he walked down the alleyway to the employees' entrance in back.

Wanda and Veronika, the Polish girls on the washing-up crew, were huddled in the alleyway with Thérèse and Solange from the tobacco shop next door when Peter arrived at work that afternoon. He could hear them giggling as he approached, and then he heard a low whistle. That was Solange. She and the other girls were all looking at him and admiring him. He grinned as he came closer. It was the suit, of course, he realized. He looked like a restaurant patron, not an employee.

Not long ago, maybe even a few weeks ago, he would have turned bright pink at the attention, but he was enjoying it now.

"Monsieur Pierre, where have you been? You look so handsome," Solange said in a playfully sultry tone, grabbing hold of his lapel as he strode up to accept the cigarette she was holding out. He stuck it in his lips and fished around for his lighter as the girls crowded closer, chattering in French and Polish about his attire.

"Look at the socks," Thérèse said, " _Trés chic_ , Pierre."

"And? So?" Veronika demanded.

"What?" Peter stalled and did his best to fight back a smile. "I was on a date, if you must know. With a very pretty and charming young lady."

"Pretty and charming, ooh," Solange said. "Next thing you'll tell us is that she's intelligent too."

"She is," Peter said with a grin.

"That's wonderful. I just wonder," Solange said, leaning in closer. "Does she know you have a boyfriend?" she said in a stage whisper.

"Solange!" Thérèse scolded as the Polish girls tittered and Solange looked smug. "You know perfectly well that's over."

"Yes, you've seen Tomasz's new boyfriend," Wanda put in. "He's always hanging around lately."

"And next month, we'll meet another new one," Veronika laughed. "He's such a handsome boy. It's a real pity he’s like that," she said with a swish of her hand. She was shaking her head as she noticed Peter's stricken expression. "Well, it's not a pity for you, of course. But for me. My mother only wants me to date Polish boys. 'No Frenchmen,'" she added in a shrill imitation of her old mama.

Now Peter was pink, and he could feel his heart thumping in his chest. It was bad enough Solange and Thérèse had hinted yesterday that they had noticed Tomasz and Peter. Now, it seemed, even more people were talking. Who else knew? And what this about Tomasz having “another” new boyfriend? Did they mean Dimitris?

Regardless of how distressed he felt, Peter knew he needed to say something—and quickly—to stop this gossip in its tracks. Ridicule, he decided—that would do. He raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes.

“You think Tomasz is my…” he said. Then he shook his head and laughed. “Sorry to d-disappoint you ladies. I know about Tomasz—everyone _knows_ about Tomasz—but that doesn’t mean we’re together. I’m with Suzanne,” he said.

It was the girls’ turn to look confused now. “But Tomasz said…” Wanda began.

“Tomasz says a lot of crazy things,” Peter said, laughing and waving a hand. “Don’t take him too seriously. I don’t. We play football. We’re mates. I know what he’s like--mad as a hatter.” He ran a hand down Wanda’s arm as he prepared to head inside, and then he winked. It has worked beautifully once already today.

“See you in there, love,” he said with a confident grin. As he ambled off in his sharp new suit, the girls were clearly impressed.

"God, he's so handsome," Therese said as Peter went inside.

"Lucky Suzanne," Wanda added as Veronika nodded enthusiastically.

Solange simply rolled her eyes.

**XXX**

As Peter dashed through the kitchen in search of Louis, two thoughts were burning through his mind: Who else knew about him and Tomasz? And was Tomasz seeing someone else?

Then it hit him. Louis had talked about “intruders.” He said “they” broke the lock; “they” entered. If Tomasz was one, who was the other one? Did Louis know something Peter should know?

He found him in this office, reviewing a wine list with the head waiter and the chief wine steward, and comparing the list to the reservation roster. “Ah, Monsieur D’Espin is coming at 7:30. On pain of death, do not open the 1870 Château Lafite Rothschild for him. In fact, don’t open anything before 1910 before him. Pretend it’s all sold.”

The staff members’ eyebrows shot up, but they murmured agreement. Louis saw Peter as he entered the room, and turned his rant toward him. “D’Espin is renowned in all the best restaurants for tricking sommeliers out of their finest vintages. He’ll complain, ‘It’s throwing sediment,’ or he’ll shake his head and say ‘Hmm, that apple scent,’ and next thing I know the sommeliers are dumping it in the sink.” He turned back to the chief wine steward. “Make sure you and your sommeliers taste any wine before they destroy it,” he said firmly.

“Yes, Chef LeBeau,” the head and wine steward said before they scurred back into the hallway to confer.

Louis sat back in his chair heavily. “We had a superb wine cellar once, but the Boche plundered and ransacked everything. The only reason we have any Château Lafite at all is because we hid crates here and there—one in Annecy, one in my parents’ flat, one under the floorboards in Grand-mère’s flat. My flat,” he said wearily.

His eyes finally took in the expression on Peter’s face as he slumped into a chair. “What’s wrong, Pierre? Didn’t you have a good lunch with Suzanne.”

“The lunch was fine,” Peter said. “It was very nice, actually. Suzanne's lovely. But Louis, those girls in the alley, they all k-k-keep saying Tomasz is my, you know… b-b-b, um, _petit ami_.”

“Are you worried that people noticed, Pierre?” Louis replied.

“Of course I am!” Peter’s voice was heated. “They’ve mmmmentioned it to me twice now! I th-think they saw us kiss. Or Solange did, at any rate.”

"Have you two kissed during the workday?" Louis had to fight to keep his eyebrows from flying up. That didn't seem like the smartest move.

Peter's head dropped. "Yes," he admitted. "Down the alley, in a doorway. It seemed private enough."

"And have you done anything _more_ than kiss in the alley?" Louis persisted softly.

“What? No, Louis! How could we? Blimey, Louis!”

“Calm down. I don’t mean what you’re suggesting. I mean, have you touched? Hugged?”

“Probably, a bit, yes,” Peter said glumly.

“Pierre, the best way not to be talked about is not hand gossip to people on a silver platter,” Louis said sternly. He saw Peter reel slightly at that, and softened his voice. “But those girls are always looking for something to chatter about. They’re probably fishing for information. Just change the subject. You have always been very good at that.”

“That’s what I did. But what if Tomasz told them?”

Louis frowned and thought. “I can’t see it, Pierre,” he said. “He’s secretive. He’s cagy. If he said anything about you, he would be giving himself away. And he’s not the type to give himself away.”

“But he’d give me away.” It wasn’t a question; it was a realization. Tomasz cared for him; Peter felt sure of it. But he also teased him, cajoled him, and sometimes seemed envious of him. And he did keep secrets. But, then, didn’t everyone?

They sat silently together, the unanswered question answering itself. When Peter spoke again, his voice was quiet and calm.

“Louis, you said there were intruders.”

Louis looked startled. “Of course. You know that. We’ve been over that, and we both think Tomasz had a role.”

“No, I mean intruders, plural,” Peter stressed. “Not one intruder, but more than one. How, how do you know that? What did you see?" Peter had been upstairs when the police were there, but he hadn't been admitted to the bedroom where Tomasz said he had simply spent the night. He had no idea what condition it was in.

There were many things Louis LeBeau could do flawlessly: One was hitting the A above middle C; one was preparing a soufflé; one was silently tracking a man in the woods without being noticed.

And one was recognizing when Peter Newkirk, his Pierre, was on the verge of acknowledging something that caused him profound pain. Like confessing that he was only 17 when everyone thought he was 23. Like admitting that he was hurt and angry that his mum never protected him from his father. Like owning up that he was interested in boys as well as girls.

Like acknowledging that he knew deep inside that Tomasz had not been honest with him.

“Pierre,” Louis said, coming around the desk and perching on it once again to sit face to face with his best friend. He took his hand and made his decision. This was not the moment for what was sure to be an emotional discussion. “The police mentioned it to me. We can talk about it at home tonight alright? Maybe together we can understand what’s going on.”

Peter just nodded. He bit his lip and looked up at Louis, attempting a grin. “Righto,” he said. “But I mean to speak with him before then. I have to tell him tonight that I’ve changed my mind about us, and I’m dating Suzanne now.”


	25. Vieux Amants, Nouveaux Amis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title means "Old Lovers, New Friends."

Peter went back into the kitchen and did what had worked for him in so many other times of stress. He let manual tasks absorb him, finding simple solace in chopping onions and carrots and cucumbers and tomatoes, just as he had often found calm in running a tracing wheel over a length of fabric.

Slice, shred, dice, mince.

Measure, mark, cut, stitch.

Above all, focus.

Don’t think about what’s next. Sew what’s under the needle. Chop what’s under the blade.

Concentrate.

“… and we need the potatoes for today’s special,” he heard Pascal saying. He looked up and wiped his face with the kerchief around his neck; that’s what it was there for. Right, the menu. Pascal was pushing it under his nose with a half-smile on his face.

“You’re deep in thought,” the old _entremetier_ chef said, his heavy eyebrows twitching in amusement.

“ _P-p-pardon_ , I’ve got a lot on my mind,” Peter replied. “My sisters are coming to visit.” Yes, that sounded like a reasonable explanation, he thought.

“Yes, that among other things,” Pascal replied. “I may be old, but I’m not blind,” he muttered as he turned next to Gaston, who was at the _potager_ ’s elbow. Gaston was pounding garlic and receiving a crash course in making _soupe au pistou_. He looked up in surprise at Pascal’s comment and got a smack on the back of his head for his troubles.

“ _Tu dois te concentre!_ ” Pascal said. “Be more like Pierre!”

“ _Oui, bien sûr, Chef Pascal! Je suis désolé!_ ” Gaston said with wide eyes. As Gaston focused harder on his mortar and pestle, Peter shook his head in mild amusement. He noticed that the pastry chef, Julien, working a few stations away from him, had observed the exchange too. Peter rolled his eyes and pressed his tongue into his cheek to suppress a snicker, and received a broad grin in response.

Back to the menu, Peter thought, pursing his lips to concentrate his own mind once again. It was Wednesday; the specials would be simple and homey. Ah, _bifteck au_ _pommes gaufrettes._ Steak with criss-cross cut fried potatoes. A kitchen porter turned up at Peter’s elbow with a bucket of peeled potatoes. Peter nodded his thanks, then pulled down his mandoline and got to work, quarter-turning each potato before each pass over the blade. Perfect.

He screened everything else out for nearly two solid hours until he felt a hand on his back. He looked up in surprise. It was Tomasz.

“Come on, take a smoke break with me,” Tom was saying. His voice was soft; his eyes were pleading.

Peter sighed. They had to talk, and there was no time like the present. He washed off his knives, then dried his hands on his apron before removing it to hang it beside his station. He followed Tomasz into the alley. Silently, side by side, in the long shadow of an early evening sun, they walked to the end and out to the adjacent street. They leaned against the brick wall of a flower shop, shoulder to shoulder, but not looking at one another.

“The girls all say how handsome you look when you come in today after your date,” Tomasz said as he lit a cigarette. He looked up and turned his head tentatively toward Peter.

“They’re easily impressed,” Peter shrugged.

“No they’re not. Suzanne was nice?”

“Very nice,” Peter replied.

“Is good. What about us? Can I see you tomorrow? I miss you.”

“You miss me? You saw me yesterday. _All_ of me,” Peter said irritably.

“Yes, but I like every day,” Tomasz said seductively.

Peter wasn’t buying it. “I can’t tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve got plans.” He had already made up his mind to continue going to football practice with Gaston and the other junior chefs. He heard they often went to a café afterwards, and he hoped he’d be invited to tag along.

“Plans? With who? You don’t know anyone other than those two girls!” Tomasz scoffed.

“Not with you,” Peter said sharply. “Look, Tomasz, I need a break. _We_ need a break. I’m leaving for London soon, and, and… this isn’t working, and I’m interested in Suzanne.”

“Really?” Tomasz snapped. “And does she know about us?”

“No,” Peter said, “And you’re not going to tell her.”

“I’m not? Ha!” Tomasz laughed.

Peter turned to look at him in the eyes now. “No, you’re not. Because you’re not vindictive. And you need this job, and you’re lucky you still have it. If I even suggest to LeBeau that he should sack you, you’d be gone like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. “And you know it as well as I do.” He paused. “Dimitris gave you that black eye.”

“Yes, I already told you that,” Tomasz said dismissively.

“But not because you owed him money. You had plenty of money to spend when were at that bookshop on Tuesday.” Peter leaned closer. “I’m not blind, Tomasz. I’ve seen how you run to him. I’ve seen how nervous he makes you. He hit you because he likes it rough. And you’re afraid to tell him no, but I’m not afraid to tell you no.” Peter inhaled deeply, blew out a smoke ring, then dropped his cigarette butt to the pavement and ground it out with the toe of his shoe.

“Hmmph,” Tomasz said. There was no agreement and no denial; just a sound of annoyance.

“There were two people in the flat above the restaurant. Was he with you?” Peter asked.

Again, silence. Peter knew what that meant. It meant yes.

Peter leaned in again and asked in a quiet but accusing voice, “Did he give you everything you wanted?”

“Yes. Yes, he did. A black eye was a small price to pay,” Tomasz spat back.

“Good for you, Tom,” Peter said. “Good for you.” He turned and walked down the alley, his face a mask.

As he turned back toward the restaurant, he found Gaston and Julien huddled together with another new chef just outside the door.

“Hey!” Julien said. “Everything OK?”

“ _Qu-quoi? Que voulez-vous dire?_ ” Peter replied. He looked over his shoulder. Tomasz hadn’t followed him.

“You looked bothered, that’s all,” Julien replied.

“No, everything’s fine. Hey, are you both coming to football practice tomorrow?” Peter asked. It was time to change the subject.

“Yes! Ten o’clock on the field behind the school, as usual?” Gaston said with his usual enthusiasm. “I was hoping you’d come back; you’re really good! We usually get a bite to eat afterwards. But maybe you’ll have other plans again?”

“No, I don’t have other plans. Play football, come to work, and wash up. That’s it for me,” Peter grinned. He lit up another cigarette and hung out a little longer with Gaston and Julien, wondering if either of them was any good at tennis, though he wasn’t ready to ask. He did have another question for Gaston, though.

“How’s your head?” he asked with a sly grin.

Gaston’s hand went to the back of his head where Pascal had cuffed him. “It’s like being in school!” he said, laughing at himself. “I was always in trouble for something—daydreaming, talking out of turn, causing explosions in the chemistry lab.”

“Oh, me too,” Julien said. “I blew things up all the time. That was half the fun of studying chemistry.”

Peter simply laughed. He’d found his people. He couldn’t claim to understand them, but he’d found them.

**XXX**

Wednesdays weren’t terribly late nights, but it had been a long day, and Louis and Peter walked home quietly shortly before midnight. Back in his suit, with his tie loosened, Peter looked like a dapper young gentleman, Louis thought as they walked along.

“I promised you we would talk when we got home,” Louis said as they crossed over the bridge from the Île de la Cite to Île Saint-Louis.

“It’s alright, Louis, I think I already know,” Peter said. “Tomasz was with that bloke Dimitris, wasn’t he?”

“I can’t say for certain, but I’m afraid so,” Louis said.

“What was the evidence?” Peter asked. “You saw something in the bedroom, I assume?”

Louis hesitated. He pulled on Peter’s elbow and beckoned him to stop under a lamp post. He studied his face and saw pain in his eyes, but a firm set to his jaw. Yes, he knew. He’d already accepted it, Louis could see that much.

“If it was me, and you knew my lover was keeping a secret, I would want you to tell me,” Louis said. “And I think you feel the same way. Because when we give ourselves over to a lover, we give them with our deepest, most sensitive self.”

“Yes,” Peter said. “I trusted him, Louis.”

“I know. You were prepared to love him,” Louis replied. He paused again. “The room is hardly used, so the floor gets dusty. There were two sets of shoe prints, and two spots on the floor where a large amount of dust had been disturbed.” He scratched behind his head anxiously. “Um, apparently because a pile of some sort had been placed there.”

Peter looked at him, frowning. He was unsure of his meaning.

“The bed linens were, um, heavily soiled _avec d’éjaculat_ ,” Louis continued. “The police took them in as evidence. I said not to return them.”

Peter was nodding now, ever so slightly, his face still neutral. “And the spots on the floor were where they piled their clothes,” he said.

“Yes, I think so,” Louis replied. “You would have been able to assess the scene, but of course they couldn’t allow you in, and it’s probably better…”

“I’m glad you told me, mate,” Peter interrupted, resuming the walk. He draped an arm over Louis as they made their way toward the _Pont Marie_. “I spoke to Tom today. I told him I need a break from him, and that I don’t think it’s working. He threatened to tell Suzanne about us.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Louis fumed.

“I’ll tell her myself, Louis,” Peter said. “I’ve decided I have to be honest with her. I’ll see her on Saturday.”

Louis looked at him with concern. "Are you sure that's a good idea, Pierre? You keep saying you don't want people to know."

"And I still don't. I'm not telling the whole world, and I won't tell her every detail, mate," Peter replied. "But if I want to have a chance with her, I can't hide the fact that I got close to another boy. It'll come out eventually, won't it? If she's still interested in me after knowing that, then I'll know it's real with her."

Louis felt the weight of Pierre's arm on his shoulder and tightened his grip around his dearest friend's waist as they crossed over the bridge. This boy had a way of surprising him; Pierre was terrified of exposure until he decided to be in charge of telling his secret to Suzanne.

"You should do what your heart says is right," Louis said as they walked through the night. "If she's as kind as we think she is, she will remain your friend."


	26. Esprit D'Équipe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title means "Team Spirit."

“It’s amazing when you think about it,” Peter was saying to his companion as they walked toward the _Lycée St. Louis_ in the Latin Quarter. “Paris to New York in less than 20 hours! You can cross the entire Atlantic Ocean, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“And only two stops _en route_ ,” Louis marveled. The story about the new Air France route was on the front page of the newspaper that he had tucked under his arm. They’d pored over it together at the bistro where they’d just finished breakfast.

It was Thursday morning, and they’d gone out early together to the wholesale market at _Les Halles_. After a leisurely meal, Peter had changed into his football shorts and jersey in the café’s _toilettes_. Now, at a few minutes before ten o’clock, they were bound for the sports field where the young men from the restaurant played football.

“It took us five nights to get there by ocean liner in December, you know,” Peter said. “New York is really grand. And do you know what today is, Louis?” Peter asked as they strolled along.

Louis crinkled his nose, trying to think. Peter didn’t wait for him to answer. “It’s the Fourth of July! I wonder what our Yank mates are doing. I don’t think they have to work today.”

“No, it’s a holiday,” Louis said with a smile. They both remembered with pleasure how much their American friends at Stalag 13 had enjoyed celebrating their Independence Day with food and fireworks and baseball. “André is probably celebrating by blowing things up. And if it's the fourth, that means Colonel Hogan’s birthday is in two days.”

“Yes,” Peter said, adjusting the RAF haversack he’d slung over his shoulder. It contained the new football boots he’d purchased with his last paycheck, a change of clothes, and his sponge bag for a quick wash before returning to the restaurant. “I’d like to phone the Gov to wish him a happy birthday, Louis. Would that be alright?”

“Of course, I’d like to speak to him also. And we could firm up our plans…” Louis had to stop himself from mentioning what he and Hogan had already discussed. It was supposed to be a surprise for Peter.

“What plans?” Peter asked.

“Well, for his return, of course,” Louis said, recovering neatly from his misstep. “He only has four more weeks in Washington.”

“Oh,” Peter said. “Blimey, I’ll be going back to London.” He frowned. He knew his time in Paris was coming to a close, but suddenly it seemed to be ending so quickly. He wanted to go home, but he was going to miss Louis, his job, and his new friends. He was going to miss Paris, too. It was as grand as Louis had always said it would be. Now that Peter’s French was improving and he knew his way around, he felt comfortable here. He hadn’t given any thought to what sort of work he’d be doing in London, assuming Colonel Hogan agreed he was healthy enough now.

“Louis, I think I’m ready to find a job, don’t you?”

“ _Absolutement_. Work agrees with you, Pierre,” Louis said with a smile.

“But do you think the Colonel will agree? Will he let me work?”

Louis didn’t hesitate. “You’re much healthier now, Pierre. As long as you feel up to working, I think he will listen to you. I think he’ll be very impressed to see how you are flourishing.”

Peter beamed, then grabbed Louis’s arm. “Oh, look, there’s Julien and Gaston. I ought to hurry. See you on the touchline?”

Louis patted him on the back. “Go, run,” he said, and he watched with satisfaction as Peter took off at a trot. Suddenly Peter stopped and turned back.

“Don’t leave wwwithout saying goodbye, alright? Don’t g-go without telling me,” Peter said earnestly.

Louis searched his face. What was he worried about? “Of course I won’t, Pierre,” he said.

Peter smiled with obvious relief. “Righto. I’d better catch up to them.” He took off running again.

Louis wasn’t guessing at what General Hogan would say about Peter; he knew. Throughout Peter’s stay in Paris, Louis had kept Hogan up to date on how he was getting on. Peter had gained some much-needed weight; baguettes and croissants were working their magic. And he was stronger; walking to work, swimming, and playing football had all done him good.

From Louis, Hogan knew that the sick boy whose health was shattered during that last winter in Germany and whose heart was crushed upon his return to England in April 1945 was retreating from view. In his place, a stronger, more resilient young man was emerging. He was no longer in desperate need of care and protection. Peter was back on his feet.

Yes, he was still having his emotional ups and downs, and Hogan knew that much but wasn’t too concerned.

“That’s just Peter,” he had told Louis on a phone call to the restaurant. “He’s broody.”

“You’re right, but of course he’s had good reason to brood,” Louis had replied. “He’s lost more than any of us.” 

Louis could see one thing Hogan couldn’t, and that was Peter’s anxiety over what others would think if they knew of his romantic interest in men. He would get comfortable with himself in time, Louis was sure. Until he did, Pierre’s natural reserve and his skill at redirection would shield him from unwanted scrutiny; Louis was certain of that, too.

As he approached the sports field, Louis thought about the difference a year had made. It was hard to say which was worse—the bronchitis, asthma and repeated respiratory infections that had dogged Pierre for a solid year, or the dark cloud that had descended over his mind. He had battled that gloom for months; Louis had spent four weeks with him upon his arrival at Hogan’s London residence that August, and saw him at his most vulnerable. He was broken. But he had emerged whole. Oh, Pierre was not done wrestling with the sorrow that occasionally poked through the surface—but he was opening his heart again and daring to admit new friends and lovers. And no matter what anyone thought of who and how he loved, that was progress. He had been knocked so low.  
  
Louis parked himself at the edge of the football pitch while the boys huddled for their match. Pierre looked hardy and at ease, horsing around in the morning sunshine with the other young men. He caught Louis looking and instantly Louis could read his mood. A grin showed Pierre was excited but nervous to be around new people. A sigh showed he was relieved Louis was on the touchline. And he way the put his hand behind his neck as he turned and looked away showed he was just a bit embarrassed to _need_ Louis there to watch him. He turned back; Louis threw him a wink, got a huge smile in return, and then gave him some space. He pulled out the newspaper, deciding he would focus on that until the match began so that Pierre wouldn't feel self-conscious.

He smiled at the headline. Air France, Paris to New York. That did sound like an adventure.

**XXX**

They faced off, _bleu contre rouge_ , and Peter found himself playing alongside Julien and Gaston in a practice match. They had the net empty in the final two minutes of the match when an opposing player broke free beyond the defense and reached the ball first. Julien, however, refused to give up on the play and ran down the opponent to make a tackle. Then he passed to Gaston, who drove the ball downfield but swiftly met a defender; so Gaston lobbed it over his foe’s head to Peter, who fired a left-footed shot off the far post and into the net.

Louis cheered wildly from the touchline and greeted the boys as they jogged up to him, sweaty, muddy, and grinning. “If you play that well on Saturday, you’re sure to win,” Louis told them proudly. “Now, where you are going before you come to work?”

“Café Rossignol for a round of crêpes,” Gaston said breathlessly. “I’m starving.”

“After the way you ran for an hour, I’m not surprised,” Louis said, clapping the young man on the shoulder and fighting the temptation to pinch his rosy cheek—when did the kitchen staff start looking so young? “Tell Marcel I have a marvelous vintage of _Veuve Cliquot_ that he should come and sample some evening,” he told Gaston, giving him a pat on the chest.

Peter snickered. “Is there anyone who owns a restaurant in P-P-Paris that you don’t know, Louis? Um, I mean _Monsieur LeBeau_?”

Louis looked up and away as he searched his memory banks. “Hmm, probably not,” he said to a round of laughter. He pointed toward the school building. “Look, there’s a tap over there. Don’t track mud into Marcel’s café and disgrace my establishment!” He had his tongue firmly in cheek.

“ _Oui_ , _Monsieur LeBeau_ ,” Peter said with a crooked grin and a dramatic eye roll. “Come on, lads, let’s wash up.”

They trotted off together, talking and laughing, sharing the bonds of football, sweat, mud, work, triumph and youth. Louis watched with pleasure. Gaston and Julien—these were good friends for Peter to cultivate.

**XXX**

“You call him Louis,” Gaston said as he sat huddled with Peter and Julien at the far end of a table with the other footballers, gorging on generous plates of crêpes. “You must know one another very well.”

“That was uh, uh,” Peter put a hand behind his neck and searched the ceiling as if the French word would reveal itself there. He’d learned a lot of French, but he didn’t have this word. “A sl-slip of the tongue?” he finally said in English.

“ _Un lapsus_ ,” Julien said. “ _Lapsus linguae_ , from the Latin.”

“Oh,” Peter said, stumped once again about what to say to Julien. He seemed to know an awful lot.

“Oh,” Julien mimicked back playfully. “You say that a lot.”

Peter dipped his head down and laughed. “I do. You tr-try learning a new language in ten weeks and let mme know how it goes,” he said with a shy attempt at a smirk. _And try not to stammer while you’re at it_ , he added silently.

“You’ve only spoken French for ten weeks? Then you’re doing brilliantly!” Gaston exclaimed.

“Well, I sp-spoke some before, thanks to LLLL… ah, _Monsieur LeBeau_ , but not very much until I got to Paris in late April,” Peter replied.

“I don’t think I could learn that fast. I had to learn English in school of course, and then German, but it took me ages.” He leaned in conspiratorially toward Peter. “And my accent is horrible,” he said in English to prove the point beyond a doubt. “And I never had Latin,” Gaston continued, grinning as he tipped his head toward Julien. “Only the really clever ones get Latin.”

Now it was Julien’s turn to look shy. “I was pushed hard by my father. He’s a lawyer in Troyes, working with champagne producers on their export contracts. He wanted me to join the firm.”

“And instead you became a chef?” Peter said in astonishment. “How did you explain that?”

“I studied chemistry first, thinking I would become an attorney in an engineering firm or something. I really didn’t know what to tell him. I just knew I had to study, so I picked the thing I liked,” he said with a shrug. “Then the war came along and changed everything.”

“Oh,” Peter said again. But before Julien could laugh, he quickly added, “One of my best mates is studying chemistry in America.”

“How do you have friends in America?” Gaston asked. “And how do you know _Monsieur LeBeau_?” Peter still hadn’t answered that question to his satisfaction.

“Listen to this, Gaston,” Julien said. “You’ll be amazed.”

Peter lit a cigarette before he spoke, then offered smokes to Gaston and Julien, both of whom accepted. He gave them each a light, then proceeded.

“We were P-P-POWs together in Germany,” Peter said in a low tone, not wanting others to listen in. “I bunked with LeBeau and with my mates Carter and Kinch, who live in America. We, we looked after one another,” he said, nodding seriously.

“You look too young to have fought in the war, Pierre,” Gaston said in wide eyed astonishment.

“I _was_ too young. I lied about my age to enlist,” Peter admitted with a shrug. “It was pretty stupid, really.”

“No,” Julien said, shaking his head soberly. “It was very brave.” He looked at Peter as if he could see something deep within him. “So you had all the military training? Boot camp, and all that?”

“Yes, yes, I had training in weapons and aircraft mechanics and … well, a lot of things. But then I g-got captured.”

“At Dunkirk,” Julien said to Gaston with a crisp nod. “Can you imagine?”

Peter had to fight to keep his expression neutral. How did Julien know he was at Dunkirk? He hadn’t mentioned that, although obviously a few people did know. Perhaps Louis or Pascal had told him. Or Tomasz. Was that possible?

Gaston’s eyes went even wider. “ _Mon Dieu_. That must have been terrifying. I had just turned 13 when France fell. I couldn’t wait until I could join up, but there was nothing to join.”

“ _Oui_ ,” Julien said. “I was at University in Toulouse. Stuck in Vichy France for the duration,” he added bitterly.

Peter was starting to warm up to Julien, and he felt suddenly guilty at his reaction to him a few days earlier. When he first heard that Julien attended university during the war, he decided that meant he was rich and probably soft and pampered. Maybe he was, Peter thought now, but it wasn't Julien's fault. He was born that way.

"You said you did what you could do to help," Peter recalled.

"Yes, I wanted to return home to Troyes, but my father pleaded with me to stay in Toulouse, and in those days," Julien said, hesitating, "Well, as you know, it took time for things to heat up. Once France fell, I became involved in… other activities."

"Oh," Peter said again.

"There you go again," Julien said with a laugh, and this time Gaston and Peter both joined in. Julien was quite enjoying Peter's company; his little moments of can’t-find-the-words bewilderment had a certain charm.

Julien leaned forward. "My mother is half-Spanish, and I grew up hiking in the Pyrenees. So I know those mountains very well. There was often a need for knowledgeable guides."

"From Toulouse?" Peter said. Suddenly the details were clicking together in his mind, and he saw Julien in a new light. "Did you happen to know a Pat O'Leary?"

Julien chuckled. "We were very well acquainted."

"Who's Pat O'Leary?" Gaston asked, completely baffled.

Peter nodded at Julien, his serious expression silently conveying a new level of respect, then consulted his watch. "W-we really should get to work, lads. We'll explain it to you on the way back to the restaurant, Gaston."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Air France began regular trans-Atlantic service from Paris to New York on July 1, 1946. The flight lasted nearly 20 hours and required refueling stops in Shannon, Ireland, and Gander, Newfoundland, Canada.
> 
> The Pat O’Leary Line was one of the main escape and evasion networks in France during World War II. Toulouse was a main hub of the operation in 1943 and 1944. There were several routes, but one of the most common escapes was for volunteers who were familiar with the terrain to guide stranded soldiers and airmen by foot over the Pyrenees into neutral Spain. The Pat Line, as it was known, exfiltrated 600 allied troops, at tremendous risk to the volunteers, at least 100 of whom were arrested; many were put to death. Altogether, the escape routes through France (including the Comet Route to Spain and the Shelburne line across France to Brittany) helped 5,000 allied troops get to England.


	27. Une Rencontre Indésirable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title means "An Unwelcome Encounter."

As Julien, Gaston, and a few of the other junior chefs gathered in the alley for a smoke break late that Thursday afternoon, Peter was conscious of a pair of eyes following him. Peter had turned right outside the door to join his new pals; Tomasz, as usual, had gone left, and was standing in a cluster of dishwashers and kitchen porters and shop girls, most of them Polish or Spanish. He was laughing cheerfully, but his eyes flitted over to where Peter was standing.

Peter caught the glance and swallowed hard, then turned his back. It was too hard to look. In the afternoon sun, wreathed in smoke, Tomasz still tantalized him. His chiseled jaw looked like it was carved out of stone; his dark eyes glistened. What a contrast, Peter thought as he shifted his attention, to Gaston's soft, baby-faced blondness. Tomasz hadn't shaved; Louis's general manager would be on his back about that soon, and Peter found himself wanting to stroke his cheek before he scraped away the stubble.

He shouldn't be thinking about Tomasz, Peter reminded himself. He looked instead at Julien's face, his bright blue eyes fringed with dark lashes. He was fairly clean shaven, but his beard was dark enough that it was starting to show by late afternoon, just like Louis's beard. It looked rugged, Peter thought—a bit softer than Tomasz's style, but very masculine. Peter scraped a hand over his own cheek, wondering if he could pull off that look. His own beard had really come in since his last year in Stalag 13 and he was finally shaving every day, but his hair was a few shades lighter than Julien's. That made it hard to say how well a scruffy look would work. He envied Louis sometimes, though he was glad he didn't have to shave twice a day.

“Lost in thought?” Julien asked with a laugh as Peter shook off his distraction.

“Sorry, sorry,” Peter said. “M-my sisters are arriving from London on Sunday. My mind keeps dr-drifting.” He chuckled and dipped his chin down.

“Sisters? How many?” Julien asked.

“Two,” Peter said.

“Are they older or younger?” Gaston inquired.

“Both older. I have seven altogether…”

“What?” Gaston said in shock.

“ _Mon Dieu_ , that’s a lot!” Julien added.

“I know, I know,” Peter said with a laugh. “The two who are coming are Mavis and Nora. Mavis is the oldest, and Nora is the one right before me.”

“Are some of them younger than you?” Gaston asked with what sounded like optimism.

“No, they’re all older,” Peter said, dipping his head again. He always found it embarrassing to impart personal information.

“Seven older sisters, that’s crazy!” Julien said. “I thought one brother and one sister was a lot to deal with. You don’t have brothers too, do you?”

“Two,” Peter said. “Well, one now.” At that, his face darkened and his chin dropped.

“You lost one?” Gaston said softly.

“Lost?” Peter scoffed. “That makes me sound awfully careless. No, I didn’t lose anyone. The N-Nazis bombed London and they killed one of my ssssisters and my littlest brother. He was still only twelve.”

Julien and Gaston both huffed out their breath. There wasn’t much to say.

“That’s heartbreaking, Pierre,” Julien finally said, resting a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “There’s nothing that helps, is there? I’m very sorry.”

“Me too,” Gaston said. “My uncle died in the war, but he was a solider. They were civilians. And a child. That's horrible.”

Peter saw sincerity and genuine concern in their expressions. He flicked his eyes over to Tomasz again and wondered why he’d never mentioned Georgie and Violet to him. It hit him that Tomasz had never asked about his family—not once. And Peter hadn’t brought it up, because when they met back in May he couldn’t have said his brother and sister’s names without fighting tears. But he wasn’t crying now. He somehow felt braver because he felt understood.

“Their names are Georgie and Violet. At least we got to bury them,” Peter said. He looked down and licked his lips. “Anyway,” he said, bobbing his head back up, “Mavis and Nora have never been to Paris. They’re staying for a week, and I can’t wait to show them around.”

“Are you going to introduce them to Suzanne?” Gaston asked.

“ _Absolutement_ ,” Peter replied. “And they’ll watch us play football, so you’ll meet them too.”

**XXX**

Later that evening, once the 9 P.M. dinner seating was complete, Peter needed another smoke break. He looked around to see if one of his mates was available.

Julien was with his _commis_ , sorting through orders for _soufflés au chocolat_ and calculating when he’d need to move each one out based on the exact time each _entrée_ was served. Gaston was a few steps underground in the walk-in refrigerator with the _garde manger_ , getting a lesson in the preparation of _terrines_.

Peter shuddered. That space looked and smelled like the cooler at Stalag 13, which thankfully Louis recognized when Peter started the job and took his first kitchen tour back in May—probably because Louis had the same reaction. He excused Pierre from that particular line of work, even though Louis was certain he would have excelled at ice-carving.

His new friends were occupied, but Peter needed a nicotine hit, so he hung up his apron and walked into the darkness on his own. By habit, he went left as he heard the door swing shut. He headed down the alley and leaned into the brick wall behind the tobacconist’s to light up. Then he heard the door again, and a pair of feet was approaching. Years of lurking in shadows and then forests had taught him to recognize a footfall, and he knew who it was. He looked over his shoulder and saw Tomasz approaching.

Tom smiled as he drew to a stop and reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. Peter, by force of habit, patted his pockets and found his lighter. He lit Tomasz’s smoke, then took a step back. They often stood quite close together, just a foot apart. Now there was two or three feet between them, and it felt like a chasm.

“You’ve made new friends,” Tomasz said with a bold grin.

Peter shrugged and smiled gamely. “So have you.” He gestured to the end of the alley where Dimitris usually lurked. “Are you looking for someone?”

“No. Just you,” Tomasz said. He reflexively shot his hand up to his eye. Under a street lamp, Peter could see the bruise was turning green and yellow. “I miss you,” Tomasz said in his most seductive tone. He inched closer, but Peter stepped backward into a doorway.

Peter shook his head slowly. “It’s only been two days, mate,” he replied, angling his body away from Tomasz. “Give it time.”

“Are you coming back to me?” Tomasz asked, running a hand over his own cheek and chin. “How do I get you back?”

Peter stared. “How long have you been seeing Dimitris, Tom? The truth.”

“The truth?” Tomasz replied. He shrugged carelessly. “Maybe two weeks.”

“We were only together seven weeks, Tom,” Peter said. “Why did you…”

“You know why,” Tomasz scoffed. “To give you more time.”

“Oh. You were doing me a favor?” Peter mocked as Tomasz crowded him into the doorway. Through his irritation, he could smell sandalwood, soap, olive oil, and sex. God, Tomasz did things to his mind, and other parts of him. He stuck a hand in his pocket to pinch himself on the thigh.

“Yes,” Tomasz said, nearly nose to nose with Peter now. “You are not used to big man wanting all of you. You need time, and I need …” He ran his hand down Peter’s arm and reached behind him to rest a hand on his buttocks. “I need this,” he began to say, but suddenly Peter’s hand was on his arm, twisting his wrist hard.

“Ow!” Tomasz protested as he yanked his arm away. “Come on, Piotr!”

“I told you I need a break,” Peter said flatly. “Don’t touch me that way. Don’t touch me _any_ way.” He pushed past Tomasz to return to the restaurant.

**XXX**

The declaration came out of nowhere as Peter and Louis walked home late that night.

“Tomasz grabbed my arse in the alleyway tonight, Louis,” Peter said with no obvious emotion.

“ _Quoi?_ ” Louis replied. “What the hell? I thought you were staying away!”

“I _am_ staying away. He followed _me_. You might have noticed he’s bigger and taller than I am, Louis. I got him in a wrist lock and made him st-stop, but he could have overpowered me if he was at all cl-cl-clever.”

“I can give him his cards, Pierre,” Louis said, his voice colored with anger. Tomasz needed to back off and give Pierre some time to think. Hopefully he would come to his senses; Pierre's affair with another man had him almost literally by the short and curlies. There had to be a boy out there who would be a better match for him. Or maybe it would be a girl; who knew at this point?

"I have good cause to fire him, and if he’s harassing you…” Louis began.

Peter cut him off. “He needs the work, Louis, and I'm leaving soon. And we were much cl-cl-closer two days ago,” he said glumly. “He’s j-j-just having a hard time getting used to … ah, k-keeping his hands off me.”

Louis grunted. “And you?”

Peter frowned and shrugged his shoulders. “I told him he can’t touch me that way. It doesn’t matter what I want. He’s b-bad for me, and he cheated. And my sisters will be here soon. I don’t need him hanging all over mmmme.”

Louis pursed his lips. Not a single mention of Suzanne, who was getting pulled into Peter's little romantic drama. He made a decision to give himself more time with Peter to help him sort through what on earth he thought he was doing.

“You’ll work by my side tomorrow and Saturday,” Louis said. “Then you’ll have the week off while your sisters are here.”

“I will?” Peter said in surprise.

“Of course,” Louis smiled back. Time away from the restaurant would also provide distance from Tomasz. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you away from them all week long. Have you nearly finished making the throw pillows for their guest room?” The girls would be occupying Peter's room, which had been done up for years in masculine tones of navy blue and hunter green. Louis and Henri had slept there as boys when they visited their grandparents, while their sisters stayed in the small bedroom down the hall. Peter would now move into the little bedroom for the week.

“Yes,” Peter grinned. “I picked out a floral fabric with navy blue, yellow, and light green on a really crisp ivory background. We’ll have to swap out my white sheets for a softer tone, though. Madame Bastian showed me that your _Grand-m_ _ère_ had some bone colored sheets in the linen cupboard. It’s not a perfect match, but the tone is correct. She’s already washed and ironed them.”

Louis had to stop himself from laughing. He’d always considered himself and Pierre opposites in many ways, but the more time he spent with him as a civilian, the more similarities he saw. He was exacting about colors and fabrics in the very same way Louis was meticulous about flavors and textures.

“That sounds very pretty for the girls, and it will go beautifully in your room. You know, Pierre, in all the time I’ve known you, I never really thought of you as someone who noticed colors,” Louis said. “Clearly I was wrong.”

“Five years in RAF blue from head to toe will do that to a chap,” Peter said, smirking. “There’s not much p-p-point thinking about colors when you know what you’re going to be wearing every single d-day.” He smiled to himself. “Air Force isn’t a true blue, you know. It’s azure. It’s got a bit more gr-green in it.” He was off and running with a level of detail that André would have appreciated, Louis thought as he walked along and nodded while Peter chattered. 


	28. Deux Soeurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter in which not that much happens...

“How long has Henri had this motorcar?” Peter asked as he drove north from Paris, passing Abbeville on the way to Calais. It was a dewy Sunday morning.

“It’s a 1938 Citroën, so you do the math,” Louis shrugged as he relaxed in the front passenger seat. “I don’t think it was driven much during the war. He kept it in Annecy mostly, so it wouldn’t be stripped for parts by the Boche,” he added, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“We’re in Picardie, you said,” Peter commented as his eyes swept across the road in front of him. One minute they were motoring through a charming village; in the next, they were passing see-through buildings—churches, schools, post offices, decimated by war. For one long stretch of roadway, the scraps of burnt-up tanks and jeeps lined the road.

“ _Oui_ ,” Louis said. “Some of them still speak their own language, you know. Keval for horse, gambe for leg.”

“ _Au lieu de cheval ou jambe_?” Peter echoed.

“ _Oui, d’accord_ ,” Louis replied with a smile. “ _Très bon_. Your French has come a long way, Pierre.”

Peter smiled broadly. “I’m pr-practically a native.”

“Don’t get carried away,” Louis replied with an equally wide grin. “Maybe in a year or two.”

“I’m going home, mate,” Peter answered, still smiling. Then his face fell. “I’ll bloody well miss you.”

“ _Oui_ , but you will be back with Papa, and I will come to visit soon.”

“You can’t c-come visit. You can never take time off work,” Peter grumbled.

“We close for August every year,” Louis replied.

“Every year,” Peter repeated miserably. “That’s a long time.”

“And in the meantime, you will come visit me. You’re coming back in the autumn to go to the ballet with your friends, right?”

“Yes. Josette said tickets will go on sale August 1. I can’t believe I’m going to a ruddy ballet, though. All that mincing about,” Peter said.

Louis smiled and shook his head. “I think you’ll enjoy it more than you know,” he said.

They drove along in companionable silence. The last two days had been busy ones at the restaurant. Louis was feeling the tug of separation just as much as Peter was; they only had a few weeks together in Paris. He looked to his left to study his young friend, who was driving skillfully and concentrating on the road. God, he would miss him. Until May of 1945, they’d been together for five solid years, as close as two soldiers could be, and they had been tested in ways that galvanized their friendship into brotherhood. He reached across the seat and laid a hand on Peter’s right shoulder and squeezed it.

Peter turned to him and smiled softly. He knew that gesture. No words were necessary. Louis had been at his side throughout their imprisonment, when he was evacuated to England, and again for a month last August when he was just settling into a new life as Colonel Hogan’s ward. It was Louis who convinced him that Colonel Hogan wasn’t having him on—that he really meant it—when he told Peter after his 18th birthday that he was prepared to remain his guardian until Peter turned 21. It was Louis who promised to be there for him whenever the Colonel couldn’t. He sometimes wondered what Louis saw in him, what he got out of their friendship.

“We’ll be there in half an hour,” Louis said. “I’ll drive back, and we’ll stop in Amiens to show your sisters the cathedral.”

**XXX**

They arrived in Calais with an hour to spare. So they found a café and settled in with coffee and croissants to wait.

“What are your plans for your sisters this week?” Louis asked.

“Well, _Sacré-Cœur et Notre Dame_ on Monday,” Peter replied. “But only for a few hours. I want Nora to be able to rest.”

“Hm. How old is Nora?”

“She’s 22.”

“And she needs a lot of rest?” Louis inquired softly.

“Her health is fragile because of her diabetes, Louis,” Peter replied seriously. “I don’t want to over-exert her.”

“Alright. Then what?”

Peter counted off his plans on his fingers. Tuesday, he hoped they would come to watch him practice football. Then they’d be off to the Louvre. Wednesday, the Eiffel Tower and a walk along the Seine. Thursday, another football practice, then lunch and the Tuileries and the Musée de l’Orangerie “to see the Water Lilies.”

“There’s a lot to see in Paris, Pierre,” Louis said.

“I know. We’ll take it day by day, alright?” Peter said, sounding a bit irritable.

“Alright. And they’ll see your football match on Saturday?”

“Of course.”

“I take it they’re big football fans?” Louis prodded.

“Not particularly,” Peter said with a laugh, finally regaining his sense of humor. “But I j-j-just want them to see me play.”

“They’ll like that,” Louis said, giving Peter a small nudge with his foot.

“They will. And they’ll know I’m better now,” Peter said. “Especially Mavis. I don’t want her to worry about me. She’ll be getting on with her own life soon.”

“When does she leave for Canada?” Louis asked. He had nearly forgotten that Mavis would be leaving with her Canadian husband, Alan Puckett, after his postwar tour of duty with the Royal Canadian Navy ended.

Peter studied his coffee cup. “About six months,” he said. He gulped on the words, and Louis could see the ache in his eyes.

It had taken meeting Mavis after the war for Louis to realize that Peter’s beloved big sister was more a mother to him than his own mother had ever been. Peter’s painful feeling that he had been abandoned by his mother ran deep; his fear of losing Mavis ran deeper.

Suddenly he understood why Peter hadn’t made many plans for his sisters. “You can take things very slowly this week and just spend time with Mavis and Nora,” Louis said. “Could we host a dinner party for them on Friday night?”

“Friday? But you’ll be working,” Peter said.

“I own the restaurant, Pierre,” Louis said. “If I want to take the day off, I can do that.”

Peter smiled radiantly. “That would be very nice. Can my friends come? And Danielle and Henri and Jean-Claude?”

“ _Absolutement_ ,” Louis said.

**XXX**

“There they are! There they are!” Peter said excitedly as they waited at the dockside. Then a skeptical look crossed his face. “Where did they get the summer frocks? They wouldn’t have had the coupons for those.”

Louis knew the answer to that; General Hogan, after all, was stateside, where clothing hadn’t been rationed, although manufacturing of civilian clothing had slowed. Alan Puckett’s sister in Canada had obtained their measurements for Hogan, _et voilà_.

As they descended the gangplank, Peter took off at a gallop, sweeping Nora up in his arms to spin her around, then doing the same to Mavis. They fell together in a clutch, three survivors in a family that had been torn asunder by war and poverty. Although Peter towered over Mavis, she somehow managed to look very much in charge as she took her sister by one arm and her brother by the other and marched them toward LeBeau.

“Louis!” she called, throwing her arms open as she approached him. He took her into his arms, bestowing a kiss on each cheek and smiling warmly.

“Mavis, I am so happy to see you again. And who is this pretty young lady?” He held a hand out to a young girl, barely five feet tall, in a lavender dress with tiny cloth-covered buttons below a sweetheart neckline and a pintucked bodice.

Nora was adorable, petite and rosy-cheeked, with dancing gray-blue eyes and dark blonde hair that fell in waves around her shoulders. Though she didn’t have the brown hair and green eyes of her brother and sister, she was recognizably a Newkirk, with the same hooded eyes and bright smile. Louis enveloped her in an embrace and her giggle electrified him.

“My name’s Nora, Monsieur LeBeau,” she said with a slight hint of a Cockney accent. “I hope we’ve got some fun planned for this week. And can we eat soon? I’m famished!”

“Did I mention she’s not a bit shy, Louis?” Peter asked with a grin.


	29. Le Raconteur

Louis and Peter prepared a simple Sunday night dinner at home for the ladies—Peter’s sisters as well as Danielle, who arrived after 5 o’clock. After a round of Louis’s tastiest hors d’oeuvres, the main course was roast chicken and potatoes, _tomates provençales_ , and _haricots verts_. Both vegetable dishes were prepared by Peter. His sisters oohed, ahhed, and devoured every bite and smothered their brother in praise, though it had an incredulous undertone.

Mavis, sitting on Peter’s right, was enjoying the green beans. “You made this delicious dish? You, Peter? You never ate anything green in your life,” she teased, then smiled at the man seated opposite her at the dining room table. “Louis, if you can get him to cook like this, you are a miracle worker.”

“Exposure to fine cuisine can tame even a Barbarian,” Louis replied with shrug and a twinkle in his eye. “Peter’s a living testament to that.”

Mavis turned to Peter with genuine curiosity. “How did you make it, love?” she asked.

He beamed as he explained, and Louis beamed with him. “I bl-blanched the _haricots verts_ first to soften them, then I s-sautéed them in olive oil with a touch of garlic and red p-pepper. It was my idea to add the cr-crumbled goat cheese and sliced radishes for a little sp-spicy kick.” Peter turned to Nora, who was on his left. “Did you like them?”

“Do you see any on my plate, you great twit?” Nora said, suppressing a smile and rolling her eyes dramatically. 

“No, but I wouldn’t put it past you to put them in your lap,” Peter replied playfully.

“That was you, if I’m not mistaken,” Mavis said. She turned to Louis and Danielle, who was seated to his right directly opposite Nora. “Stuffed his pockets with Brussels sprouts, this lad,” Mavis said, tipping her head toward Peter. “As if no one would suss it. As if the sudden disappearance of all green vegetables from his plate would ever go unnoticed!” She shook her head in amusement.

Louis and Danielle laughed at the image as Peter vehemently denied it.

“It happened one time, Mave. Once.”

“One time?” Mavis guffawed. “Try five times! Or maybe six. I’m the one who washed the clothes. I’m the one who peeled tiny green leaves out of your pockets!” She gave her brother a playful push.

“And the cauliflower…” Nora added with a shudder. “What a mess, with all that cheese sauce in your pockets! And that’s not even green, so what was your objection, Peter?”

“Oh, this is very nice,” Peter said, faking a sulk. “I invite you here and you repay me with character assassination.”

“How is this character assassination? You’ve always regarded vegetables as the enemy. It’s a known fact about you!” Nora clearly had a talent for sly provocation.

“No, Pierre has a point.” Louis joined in, speaking with the sobriety of a judge. “You _are_ a legumier, Pierre. There are serious charges against a man in your position.”

“Crimes against vegetables,” Nora intoned in a low, deep voice with a somber expression. “What’s your defense, young man?”

“I was green,” Peter replied with his hands clasped together. “But I’ve turned over a new leaf, Your Honor.”

Mavis and Nora groaned in harmony while Louis and Danielle worked out the puns.

Peter rolled his eyes, speared the last green bean on Mavis’s plate with a fork, and bit into it with obvious satisfaction. “Right then, d-don’t eat the vegetables that I so lovingly prepared for you. There’s more for me that way,” he grinned.

**XXX**

Pierre was _rayonnant_. What was the English word? Glowing. Basking, Louis told himself. He paused on the threshold of his _salle de séjour_ , his living room, for just a moment as the room pealed with laughter. Pierre was telling a very lively and no doubt outrageous story, making his sisters and Danielle double over with laughter, and cracking himself up in the process.

“… So the ball goes out of play over the goal line and we’ve just finished our corner kick when a ball of white fur blazes across the field and seizes possession! He’s dribbling it about the pitch like a pro when suddenly he decides to mount it…”

“Peter! Must you?” Mavis called out, scandalized but laughing.

“Not like that! I mean, he gets on top of the ball and starts prancing about on it. Perfect balance, like a little furry ballerina. Turns out this little poodle was not only a brilliant footballer. He was a circus dog before the war!”

Nora broke in. “You know, if you can get him on your roster, you could go all the way to the World Pup!’

“That was my punchline, you sneak!” Peter tossed a balled-up sock at his sister, who promptly lobbed it back at him. Then she yawned and smiled and waved at Louis.

“Pierre,” Louis said as he entered the room, “Your sisters have had a long day. Have you shown them their room?”

“Yes, Louis,” Mavis interrupted. “It’s very nice. Nora, Louis is right. We really need to get a proper night’s sleep.”

“Nora, I want you to rest,” Peter added.

“Blah, blah, blah,” Nora taunted. “I’m not a delicate flower, Peter. What are we doing tomorrow?”

“ _Sacré-Cœur_ and later _Notre Dame_ , I think,” Peter replied. “The view from _Sacré-Cœur_ is one of the best in Paris, and there’s a beautiful old carousel… and I think you’ll like _Montmartre_.”

“And there’s the windmill, and all the little cafés,” Louis said. “I’ll come with you, if you’d like. And if you’re not worn out after that, we can take a taxi to Notre Dame.”

Peter’s eyes lit up, and so did Mavis’s and Nora’s. That would be grand, they all agreed.

Nora got to her feet and stretched, clearly ready to call it a night. “Are we going to meet some of your friends, Peter? You’ve talked about them in your letters.”

“Oh yes,” Peter replied. “We’ll see Julien and Josette tomorrow, and you’ll meet Suzanne and Gaston in the next few days.”

“What about the other one? Tom?” Nora asked.

“Oh, well,” Peter replied. “Ahm, ah, ahm, I’m n-not so sure.”

“He’ll be working long hours,” Louis interjected. “At the restaurant.”

“Oh! Maybe we can meet him there!” Nora said. “I’ll recognize him after you sent me that picture of the two of you. Mavis, Peter plays football and goes swimming with him.”

“I know,” Mavis said. “He sounds very nice. From Poland, you said?”

“Yes,” Peter said. “But, well, I’ve joined a different crowd for football. Julien and Gaston…”

“Great! We’ll meet all of them, then!” Nora said cheerfully. “Good night, Peter,” she said, pecking her brother on the cheek. Mavis followed suit, and then both of Peter’s sisters said a warm goodnight to Louis and Danielle. Peter followed them into the hall for a longer, more private hug.

A moment later he was back. The living room was quiet, with Peter, Louis and Danielle staring at one another.

“I c-can’t tell them,” Peter said. “I’m n-not ready to tell them. They can meet Suzanne and, and, and my other friends. Not Tomasz.”

“If they do meet Tomasz at the restaurant, is he likely to say anything?” Danielle asked quietly.

“I, I don’t know,” Peter said. “He’s busy with Dimitris, but …”

“But what, Pierre?” Louis wanted to know.

Peter looked down and ground his bare toes into the carpet. “He says he mmmmisses me. It’s only been five days.”

“Hmm,” Louis said. “Well, you’re not working this week. And I will make sure he is not in the restaurant when your sisters come to visit.”

Peter looked up at Louis. “Are you sure, Louis?” LeBeau nodded briskly. “Thank you, mate. That should help,” Peter said.

Louis patted Peter on the arm, then left the room, leaving Danielle and Peter together. They could hear him padding down the hallway after Peter’s sisters. He was in host mode, determined to make sure they were completely comfortable.

“Are you over him, Pierre?” Danielle asked softly.

“I’m trying to be. I do like Suzanne. I just miss… what we had.”

Danielle leaned into Peter, and laid her hand on his arm. “Intimacy,” she said very quietly. “With a man. Is it what you prefer?”

Peter shrugged and looked away. “I’m trying not to miss it.”

Danielle pursed her lips. “What does Suzanne know, Pierre?” she asked.

Peter had seen her on Saturday. He was very interested in Suzanne, and wanted to be closer to her. He also knew there was a risk she would hear about his relationship with Tomasz, and he wanted her to hear about it from him. So he’d begun to broach the topic. While he didn’t want to spell the details of his affair with Tomasz, he didn’t want to lie to her, either. But he hadn’t gotten very far.

“She knows that, that, that he was interested in me,” Peter replied.

“That _he_ was interested in _you_ ,” Danielle said. “But not that you were attracted to him?”

“I couldn’t br-bring myself. I’ll tell her somehow. I was thinking she might read between the lines. We, we had fun together yesterday. She taught me some tennis, and then we took a long walk. And, and we kissed.” He bit his lip and looked pensive as he said it.

“Was it nice?” Danielle asked. She slid her hand down his arm to take his hand in her own.

He looked up and smiled a genuine smile. “Yes, of course it was.”

“Mm,” Danielle said. She believed him, but she also knew from her own brother’s experience that some men spent years denying their nature. “Give it time with Suzanne, Pierre. But follow your heart. And don’t break hers.”

“I don’t want to hurt her,” Peter said. “I j-j-just want to be normal.” He wrapped his arms around Danielle in a hug just as Louis re-entered the room, carrying Danielle’s cardigan.

“Break it up, you two,” Louis joked. “Pierre, your sisters are settling in nicely. And bad news: Cosette has claimed Nora as her best friend. I’m walking Danielle home, and should be back in an hour.”

“Or two,” Danielle said with a wink.

“Or two,” Louis said as he helped Danielle into her sweater. That sounded promising, he thought as a small smile formed on his lips. He didn’t have to work the next day, but Danielle did, so he wouldn’t be spending the night. If he did, God only knew how long they'd at it; they were really enjoying one another these days. Anyway, he needed to be home for his house guests.

Peter saw them to the door and kissed Danielle good night. Oh, he loved her so much and was so happy she was in Louis’s life.

He sighed as he walked down the hall to his temporary bedroom at the back of the flat. He was done with Tomasz; he was sure of that. He missed his embrace, the feel of Tom’s stubble against his cheek, but he could change. He was sure of that, too. He would think about Suzanne and Anja tonight. Nobody else.

He poked his head into his bedroom, the one he’d given up to his sisters for the week.

“Good night, Mavis. Good night, Nora,” he said softly. There was no reply. They were untroubled and sleeping soundly.


	30. Caché à la Vue de Tous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Hidden in Plain Sight (Caché à la Vue de Tous)

Louis entered his flat on Thursday night in the weary but satisfied mood of a man who had worked hard all week. He planned autumn menu updates, squared away work papers for several Polish and Czech refugees, negotiated the purchase of kitchen equipment upgrades, and hired installers who could be trusted to complete the work in his absence during the restaurant’s August holiday.

He was looking forward to a rare day off on Friday, which he would spend doing what he loved: Cooking for guests. He was preparing and hosting a dinner party as a sendoff for Peter’s sisters, and it also felt like the first phase of Peter’s own farewell, less than four weeks away.

He’d seen his houseguests coming and going all week, a smiling, laughing trio on their way to take walks, visit museums, explore gardens, and poke around neighborhoods. He’d never seen Peter looking so carefree, but then again he’d never seen Peter on holiday. Actually, he wasn’t sure Peter had ever _been_ on holiday, other than traveling with General Hogan to visit family in America over Christmas.

This much was clear: Peter’s sisters were good for him. Louis had already learned a year earlier that in Mavis’s presence, Peter was calm and comfortable. Watching him relax under her warm care had brightened the awful days after the war ended, when Peter was slowly recuperating at Princess Mary’s RAF Hospital in Shropshire. Knowing that Mavis was there was the only reason Louis could bring himself to leave Peter’s side.

But Nora was a delightful sprite, and she brought out something else, a playful and easygoing spirit. Louis had seen glimmers of that spirit when Peter was with Anja and Hannelore, and even Carter now and then. But not like this. Peter had spent the war coiled like a spring most days, and Louis suspected he’d been that way for years. But in Nora’s company, a boyish quality that had been nearly extinguished had resurfaced.

On Monday, Louis stood chatting with Mavis at the foot of _Sacré-Cœur_ when Peter and Nora rode the Montmartre carousel together and laughed and threw their heads back in complete joy. The sight of the two of them riding painted horses up and down made him want to laugh too. At 20 and 22, they were certainly not children, but in that moment they were completely uninhibited and focused on having fun with one another. They’d lost so many years together, Louis realized, and it reminded him of what he had said to Colonel Hogan when Peter was just 17: “He’s lived harder and faster than most men twice his age. He deserves to simply be a boy now and then.”

Now, on Thursday night, Louis could see as he padded down the hallway that the bedroom next to his was dark and quiet. The young ladies were asleep. But as he rounded the corner, he saw a light at the end of the hall in Peter’s room.

He loosened his tie, wandered toward the light, and rapped on the door. “Pierre?” he asked.

“Come on in, mate,” came the reply. He entered the narrow room and found Peter sitting on the top of the bunkbeds he and Henri had slept in as little boys when this was their grandparents’ flat. He had a notepad on his knees and was writing carefully.

“Busy?” Louis asked.

“Writing a letter to the Gov, t-telling him what we've been up to,” Peter replied, looking up with a relaxed smile. “Come on up.” He laid his pad and pencil aside.

Naturally he chose the top bunk, Louis thought. He hauled himself up and sat beside his friend.

“This was Henri’s bunk when we were boys, before we switched rooms with the girls. I was scared to climb up here,” Louis said. He was smiling almost shyly at the memory. He must have been six or seven before he got the nerve to get on the top bunk.

“You, scared of heights? I’ve seen you scale a wwwall and a towering tree. I’ve seen you climb up the side of a mansion onto a balcony with g-guards still on duty,” Peter replied. He elbowed Louis in the ribs. “I can’t imagine you being scared.”

“Oh, I was terrified. I was a small boy, and it was too high off the ground,” Louis said with a shrug. “I liked the bunk down below. If you hung the blankets up, it was like a little cave.”

Peter laughed, amused by the thought of LeBeau as a little lad hiding behind a blanket. Out of all his mates, he thought he was the only one who ever got scared, not that he ever showed it. And maybe Carter, he decided. Yes, if he was scared, surely Carter was also afraid. Because it was bad enough that he was younger than Carter; he couldn’t be less brave than Carter too.

“If I had a ch-choice, I always p-picked the top bunk,” Peter said. “That way there was nothing above mmme, hemming me in.”

“It’s always wise to seek higher ground,” Louis said philosophically. He clapped a hand down on Peter’s thigh. “How was your day? Are your sisters wearing you out?”

Peter shook his head in a weary sort of way, but he was still grinning. “Nora has a lot of energy,” he said. “Mavis and I are scr-scrambling to keep up with her.” His face was suddenly serious. “Her health is better than I expected, Louis. It’s easier to get insulin, and that helps. She takes th-three injections a day now instead of two, and that’s made a b-big difference too.”

“You worry about her,” Louis said simply.

“I do worry, but probably more than I need to do. You’ve ssseen that she eats like a horse and still stays thin,” he added with a laugh.

“She has a healthy appetite, and she’s not fussy, like certain people I could mention,” Louis said, poking Peter in the ribs.

“I’m not that f-fussy any more, am I?” Peter asked, swatting LeBeau’s hand away.

“No, you’re an adventurous eater. I almost miss the old Pierre,” Louis said.

“Me too,” Peter replied. “But people change.”

They sat together for the next hour. Peter retraced his adventures of the past four days while Louis recounted what he’d missed in the restaurant. The highlight came during the first dinner seating just that evening, when a middle-aged customer got down on his knees to propose to his equally middle-aged date. Louis would have made their champagne complimentary at that point, but when he noticed the tattoo on the lady’s arm, he comped the entire meal and sent glasses of champagne to everyone in the dining room. The series of numbers etched on her arm could mean only one thing; she was a survivor of the Nazis' attempts to stamp out the Jews. The gentleman no doubt had a similar mark. The triumph of the human spirit deserved a celebration, and nine bottles of champagne was the least Louis could do.

“I gave the toast, and sent up a silent prayer for my Grand-Mère,” Louis told Peter. He’d had to excuse himself to wipe his eyes in the restaurant, and they were welling up again. His grandmother’s death in Auschwitz was a bitter loss to the family.

”I wish you’d been there,” Louis said softly. “You would have appreciated it.”

Peter nodded. He was sure Louis was right about that, but the lump in his throat prevented him from saying so. He reached over and brushed away the tear from Louis’s cheek, then wrapped an arm around him. He didn’t have words for this—and he was quite sure he would have stumbled over them if he did know what to say. So they sat silently for a moment until Louis squeezed Peter’s hand and asked about Mavis and Nora’s visit, even though he already knew the answer.

Mavis and Nora were enjoying everything. They were enchanted by Paris’s fountains and cobblestones and flowers and cafés. They eagerly attended Peter’s football practices on Tuesday and Thursday just so they could meet his friends Julien and Gaston. On Wednesday Peter introduced them to Suzanne, and had the pleasure of presiding over lunch with a bevy of sweethearts—including Adèle, because he didn’t have the heart to leave her out. And day after day, they hit all the sights they’d planned to, and a few more to boot. Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Les Invalides, the Champs Elysées, a barge on the Seine, the Luxembourg Gardens, the Tuileries, the Musée de l’Orangerie, and on and on. 

Louis couldn’t suppress his pride as he listened to Peter describing all the places he’d taken his sisters, how they got around, and what surprises they found along the way.

“Pierre, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you love Paris,” Louis teased. He expected a smart answer, but didn’t get one.

“I do, Louis,” Peter replied earnestly. “With all my heart, I do. I never knew you could fall in love with a place, but Paris has a soul. It’s going to be difficult to leave.”

**XXX**

Twelve people could pack around the dinner table at Chez LeBeau—and on Friday evening, they did. They were elbow to elbow, but they were a friendly bunch and not even the newcomers seemed to mind.

After four courses they adjourned to the living room while the commis chefs took charge of preparing a dessert course and a cheese course. Louis had scheduled a 45 minute intermission on the grounds that guests might try to beg off on the flambés and soufflés that awaited them if they weren’t given a decent interval to digest the main courses.

Cosette was in high dudgeon over the mass invasion of what she clearly regarded as her queendom, and had hissed at Danielle and slashed her cousin, François, who had only come to help even out the numbers. Henri attended to the victim; Peter disappeared to comfort his darling with a small plate of paté, grudgingly provided by the host. He led her to his room murmuring soothing words about what a perfect girl she was and assurances that he knew she never meant to be naughty, and soon enough Cosette was sleeping in the middle of Peter’s bottom bunk.

Returning from his duties, Peter paused in the archway that led to the living room and took in the crowd. Mavis was in an animated discussion with Danielle and François, who appeared to have survived Cosette’s assault. Louis and Henri were debating the merits of dogs versus cats; cats were losing. Suzanne was laughing with Nora, Gaston, and Jean-Claude. And Julien and Josette only had eyes for each other.

A smile formed on Peter’s lips as he watched the young lovers. Julien’s hand was on Josette’s cheek—the way Peter had touched Anja and Suzanne. Josette’s hand was on Julien’s waist, a finger tucked under his belt like a stitch that bound them together. His black hair tumbled into his face as he leaned down toward her, and Peter realized that he hadn’t noticed how shaggy Julien was, because his hair was usually tucked away under a _toque_. Josette gazed up at Julien as his fingers ran a circle on her cheek and then on her neck, brushing back her shiny dark brown hair. They seemed just right together. Peter wondered if they had set a wedding date yet.

He cast his eyes over to Suzanne, and as he did, she turned, saw him, and smiled merrily, laughing at something Gaston had said. Peter flashed back his best smile and nodded. He would be right there. Then his gaze traveled back to Julien, who looked up and spotted Peter just as Josette was tucking his hair back behind his ears. Julien grinned sheepishly at how Josette was fussing over him; Josette smiled and rolled her eyes. “Men,” she seemed to be saying with a warm, loving confidence. Peter bit his lip, but couldn’t suppress the smile in his eyes as he glanced down and away.

**XXX**

Peter strolled up to Suzanne, wrapped an arm around her waist, and tugged her closer. She leaned into his shoulder, and he could feel her brown ringlets tickling his neck. He felt strong holding her, and he could see admiration in Nora’s eyes. He fell right into the conversation; they talked, they laughed, and it came out that Gaston had spent boyhood summers at his Grand-mère’s home in Picardie. Suddenly Suzanne and Gaston were in rapt conversation about places they both knew.

Peter was dying for a smoke, and he lured Nora out onto the balcony with him. He lit a fag, but she snatched it out of his lips for herself, so he was forced to light another one, rolling his eyes at the indignity of it all. They looked out over the quiet Paris street on a warm summer night, saying nothing, just letting the calm scene wash over them and smiling like conspirators as they blew smoke rings at one another.

Inside, the most senior commis chef had stepped into the living room to whisper in Louis’s ear. Louis nodded and patted his back, and as the commis left, Louis plinked his fingernails on a wine glass. The ringing sound commanded attention, and he spoke.

“Everyone! It’s time to return to the dining room!” Louis said loudly. “The coffee is hot, we have petit fours, we have cheese and port, and the soufflés and flambés will be ready any moment.” Peter heard the mumblings and footsteps through the door. The living room quickly went quiet, but he intended to finish his smoke before returning to the party. When he ground out the last ash, he took Nora by the arm to go inside.

Nora and Peter had just stepped inside from the balcony when they realized they had interrupted something. In a far corner of the room, Jean-Claude had his hands on Henri’s waist; Henri had his hands in Jean-Claude’s hair. They thought they were alone in the dark and had snatched a quiet moment to kiss lovingly; at the sound of the creaking balcony door, their heads spun around. Henri was visibly relieved that it was Pierre until he noticed he had his sister with him.

Peter had to think fast, and he decided that the best thing to do was to take the moment in stride. “As you were, gentlemen,” Peter said cheerfully as he hustled Nora across the room. 

As they exited, Nora pulled Peter by the arm and tugged him into the corridor. They stood there as Henri and Jean-Claude walked back into the dining room for dessert. Henri’s hand was on the small of Jean-Claude’s back until they were in sight of the room; then he dropped it.

“Did you see that?” Nora whispered in Peter’s ear.

“Yes,” Peter replied. “Don’t stare.”

“I wasn’t staring. I was just surprised,” Nora said, elbowing her brother in the ribs. “Did you know about them?”

“Oi! Stop that." Peter rubbed his side, then crossed his arms over his chest. "Yes, I knew. Why?” He knew he should have tapped the brakes, but instead he kept going. “They _are_ French, you know. They do a lot more kissing than we’re used to.”

“French—oh, please, Peter,” Nora scoffed. “There’s polite kissing and then there’s the real thing.” Like Peter, Nora was nothing if not perceptive, and she had a smart answer for everything. Making jokes was her first instinct, but she liked LeBeau, and his brother and Jean-Claude seemed so pleasant, so her face softened as she continued.

“It’s just… they could be arrested for that in England, Peter. Or have their arses kicked,” she said, leaning in close to Peter. She looked quizzically at her brother. “It doesn’t bother you?”

Peter paused before replying. Words Louis had said to him in Stalag 13 flooded his mind, and suddenly he was saying them. “What do I care who another person loves? When two people want to become one, it’s their business, not mine.”

Nora looked up at him in surprise, unsure what to say next. Her brother must have grown up in some ways she couldn't have predicted; a man with a man was a shock to her, but he must have seen this before. “There _are_ laws against it, you know. That’s all I’m saying, love.”

“Well, you know what Mr. Bumble said,” Peter replied. “‘The law is a ass—a idiot.’ Anyway, we’re not in England. This is France, and there’s no law against it.”

“So you think it should be allowed?” Nora persisted.

“It’ll happen whether it’s allowed or not,” Peter snapped. He lowered his voice. “Look, love, I know the two of them, and you don’t. Henri and Jean-Claude are good blokes and they’re devoted to one another. What else matters?”

Nora bit her lip. They did seem like fine people; she was just thrown. “I didn’t expect to see two men doing THAT, that’s all. It’s just new to me, I suppose,” she said.

“Yes, well, it wwwas new to me, too, at one time,” Peter said. “But I understand it now.” He searched his sister’s face and found questions still lingering there. “Don’t hold it against, them, love. They’re j-just like anyone else.”

“Really?” Nora said with obvious skepticism.

“Yes, really. Just like you and me,” Peter said firmly. He decided it was time to change the subject. “What were you and Gaston and Suzanne laughing about?”

“You, mostly,” Nora smiled in relief to have something less jarring to think about. “We’re all convinced Cosette is your one true love.”

“Of course she is,” Peter said. “But I don’t think she feels the same way about me. We’ll have to see if she follows me back to London.”

“Maybe she’ll write to you,” Nora said seriously.

“She’ll never write,” Peter replied with a sulk in his voice.

“Oh? What makes you so sure?” Nora inquired.

“Because she’s always been terribly im- _purr_ -tinent. And also, she has no thumbs. The poor girl can’t grip a pencil for love nor money,” Peter said. He took another sharp elbow in the ribs for that, then linked arms with Nora and went into the dining room to inspect the desserts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter’s comment beginning with “What do I care who another person loves?” were spoken to him by LeBeau in “Flirting with Danger,” a bonus chapter of “Peter and Anja” that was published on AO3. Mr. Bumble is a character in Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens.


	31. A Pause

_Readers, this is just a quick note to apologize for the month-long delay in posting. I usually write every night so I can post once or twice a week, but right now I am in the middle of a really demanding clinical practicum in speech pathology, and it's going to be about another month before I can pick this back up. (Unless a HUGE inspiration strikes.) I am closer to updating my other major ongoing story, Fussy, and I'm hoping to wrap that one up by the end of May. After that, Awakening will get my full attention among all my writing projects. I haven't lost my drive to do it, and the ideas are still bubbling up. I just don't have enough time in the day right now!_  
  


_This is a preview of the next chapter, which features the last day with Peter's sisters in Paris. (It's not much, and basically nothing happens, but at least it's a little flavor.) We are getting close to Peter's last weeks in Paris and his reunion with Hogan, and maybe few other surprise guests!_

Saturday mornings were for football, and Peter was up early. It was his sisters’ last full day in Paris. They’d patiently accompanied him to two football practices during the week, and he was excited that they’d finally have a chance to watch him play.

As the bookends of seven girls in a row, Mavis and Nora didn’t know much about sport until Peter’s devotion to football took hold when he was eight years old. A football match turned out to be one place where it was easy for him to fit in. A boy who had always stood apart because of his stutter didn’t need words on the football pitch—all that mattered was that he was scrappy, quick, and clever, and when the boys on their street were choosing up sides, Peter was in demand.

Barefoot and shirtless, Peter padded down the hallway to the bedroom where his sisters were staying, and peered in. Still sleeping, he observed. They both had long hair that was kept tucked up during the day, and Peter liked seeing it down. Long strands flowed freely on their pillows—Mavis’s was dark brown, Nora’s golden brown. He smiled and quietly pulled the door shut and headed for the kitchen.

He smelled the coffee before he was halfway there, and heard LeBeau puttering about as he swung the door open.

“I thought you would stay with Danielle last night,” Peter said as he settled down at the table.

“Not when I have house guests,” Louis replied as he placed a cup of coffee in front of Peter. He gave him a critical look up and down, noting his tousled hair, bare feet, and loose-fitting pyjama bottoms. “Don’t you ever think of putting on a shirt?”

“Why?” Peter replied. “You know this is how I sleep.”

“But your sisters…”

“Oh, please. They’ve seen me in less, mate,” Peter replied with a grin.

“Not since you’ve grown into a man,” Louis said with an unsuccessful attempt at sternness. Really, he could not help laughing at Pierre sometimes. “What if Danielle had been here? Or Suzanne? Or Madame Faucher?”

Peter hadn’t thought of that. “Or Madame Bastian," he deadpanned with an exaggerated shudder. "I suppose I’d run away shr-shrieking like a little girl out of embarrassment." 


End file.
